


The Worst of Us

by RiaTheDreamer



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Angst and Humor, Can be read without having played the game, Drama, Friendship, Injury, M/M, Slow Burn, The Last of Us - Freeform, Violence, Zombies (sorta)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-13 06:44:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 58,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13565037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiaTheDreamer/pseuds/RiaTheDreamer
Summary: Of course Dexter Grif was unlucky enough to get drafted for outside duty.A group of outcasts are struggling to survive in a post-apocalyptic world where a parasitic fungal infection is turning mankind into monsters: the infected are lurking in the shadows while the survivors constantly debate which lines must be crossed in order to survive.(An apocalypse AU taking place in the settings of The Last of Us, though it can be read without having played the game.)





	1. The Draftee

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hound_Unit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hound_Unit/gifts).



 He had considered throwing it out. Just crushing the paper into a ball and dumping it out through the broken window. He would ignore it and Kai would never know about it.

But they obviously knew who he was and where he lived, if the letter addressed to “Dexter Grif” that had been nailed to their door was any indication. Yeah, there were no mail slots but, did it have to be so dramatic?

Perhaps they thought someone would steal it – which was a stupid thought since most people would rather burn off their hand than receive a drafting notice.

And they’d even put a lot of effort into delivering the letter, seeing how they’d walked all the way to the third floor where he lived.

Grif had read it so many times he knew the words by memory. He’d been trying to find a loophole, a term loose enough for him to use it to his advantage. Just _something_.

But he was categorized “able-bodied civilian” as they put it. Technically, at least, despite him being out of shape and perhaps a bit heavier set than what you would expect from the slum. It had earned him a lot of insults, not to mention the nicknames, but it was better than to starve.

And the punishment for failing to show included “ration restriction and possible loss of zone residency”. Grif happened to be rather fond of having something to eat and a roof above his head. They had worked so hard in order to keep this shitty apartment, not to mention what a pain in the ass it had been to get it in the first place.

Grif sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. Seemed like the Quarantine Zone got its wish after all – Grif was going to be a soldier.

How _fucking fantastic_.

He left the worn couch that creaked under his weight and went to kitchen cabinets, searching for anything to eat. A snack would surely help on that weird buzzing in the back of his head. His hand scrambled against nothing for a good while until his fingers finally reached something cold. He pulled out a can of beans – and sighed.

This was going to be Kai’s and his dinner tonight. He could not take that. With nothing else inside their tiny pantry, he was reminded of another duty he should take care of today. He pulled out the ration cards they could afford to spend now from their hiding spot under Kai’s mattress. Their supply had been low since he lost his job.

Well, at least he had a new job now. A dangerous job that sucked ass but a job nonetheless.

Now he just had to survive it.

Life in a nutshell, huh.

* * *

The line for the Ration Distribution Center was longer than usual, and Grif cursed under his breath. This was never a good sign. Last month had been tough enough since the Zone had lost a good portion of its rations do to a bombing in the depot. Great job, rebels – punish the ones in power by making people starve. Like the everyday man didn’t have enough to worry about.

But they should probably count themselves lucky, anyway. Considering they were living inside a Zone.

Grif dug his hands into his pockets, waiting because there wasn’t much else to do. The people in front of him were quiet as well, not daring to complain in case any of the soldiers heard them. They just kept their heads low and their hands in their pockets. When the line finally began to move, agonizingly slow according to himself, he became aware of the unwanted attention thrown in his direction.

That annoying feeling of someone staring at his back turned out to be warranted when Grif turned his head and caught the wide-eyed man in the act. He didn’t know the stranger, but it seemed to be a widespread curiosity since he spotted at least two more persons in the line suddenly lowering their glares, pretending that the ground was suddenly interesting.

He probably should have expected this. Rumors spread quickly. Grif had just hoped they would have died down by now.

At least these guys only went as far as staring. The first week people had made sure to keep a certain distance from him, and one idiot had actually ruined his shirt when he searched for any bites. No infected near his stall, he’d told Grif while pinning him against the wall.

Well, Grif wasn’t bitten and he wasn’t infected. The unexpected check-up had proved that much.  So suck on that. The last time he had seen an actual Runner was eighteen years ago when the outbreak had happened and the infected had been everywhere. After getting inside a Quarantine Zone things had been as calm as they could be.

Grif was just extremely lucky.

Until today.

When he finally got the hold of the package that would keep them alive at least another week, he marched away from the distribution center with quick, angry steps. The city’s tall buildings hovered over him, and everything seemed deadly quiet the further he came away from the checkpoint.

It was hard not to let the somber mood get to you, walking past the narrow streets with broken windows barricaded with wooden planks, the walls decorated by plants crawling up the bricks or the occasional graffiti that let them know that they were all doomed or that the Fireflies were going to save them. Grif honestly didn’t give a fuck about any of the messages that bored and desperate people had sprayed upon the buildings. He already knew that he was doomed. Living in an apocalypse didn’t really get your hopes up high. Even when you’d survived this long.

The good thing about living in the slums – formally known as Area 5 but they all knew what it truly meant– was the lack soldiers. The military was mainly centered in the middle of the city, guarding the Distribution Centers that could be found in the other Areas, and of course soldiers were swarming like ants around the checkpoints that served as the only access to other Areas in the Zone.

They were usually a pain, and Grif wasn’t a fan of people waving a rifle in front of his face just to remind him once again, in case that he had forgotten, that they could shoot him should he cause any trouble. But Grif wasn’t a troublemaker, at least not directly to their faces. He had his papers straight – name, address, inhabitant number, birth year, the qualified reason to leave his home Area – now just let him go pick up the damn rations so he could go back to his little sister.

Since today had already reached a new level of bullshit, the walk home of course meant trouble despite the fact that the soldiers had paid him no attention today. But there was always some asshole ready to make things more difficult for you, proven by the hooded person that suddenly blocked Grif’s path as he rounded a corner.

He didn’t recognize him since the ragged hoodie and the grey scarf covering his lower face didn’t really give him much of a personality. Except how the entire outfit screamed _‘mugger’_. But chances were that he was one of the more desperate types hanging around the Black Market, maybe a gambler. A lot of trouble – and probably shivs – was hidden under that hood.

Grif set his jaw.

“Seems like you could survive a day or two without those,” asshole said and gestured towards the rations Grif was holding tightly against his body. “Hand it over.”

Grif didn’t have any weapons on him – he would never have made it through the check point to the other Area had that been the case. The soldiers would have found out and beat the crap out of him. Grif had learned that by watching others make that mistake.

But this was not the first time he had dealt with a mugger. He’d lived here for years, after all. “Wow, a fat joke. My one true weakness. You’ve defeated me.” He narrowed his brown eyes. “Fuck off, asshole.”

But the stranger didn’t move out of his way. Instead he reached inside his coat, pulling something out. Grif saw a shimmer of metal. A knife – no, a gun, which meant trouble.

Grif found himself taking one step backwards, his heels almost hitting the brick wall, while he kept his eyes on the mugger’s hand.

“-just saying that when a girl asks to see your sniper rifle, it’s hard not to misinterpret it.”

“Considering you never bring your sniper rifle inside the Zone, it really should not have been that hard to understand.”

The two voices rung out in the narrowed street as shadows began to appear against the corner building.

Both Grif and the mugger froze. For a short moment he wondered if the military was coming to help him: soldiers would actually enter Area 5 at times to deal with commotions, though this mostly first happened after someone had been shot and bled out on the ground. Quality protection right there.

Rounding the corner, the pair of new intruders came into the light. Grif turned his head to see a dark-skinned man with a smug smile on his face. He stopped dead in his tracks as the pairs almost stumbled into each other. The sight of his partner caused Grif to slowly back away, one step at the time – he knew better than to mess with a guy with that amount of muscle and scars. It was impressively terrifying.

But at least Grif kept his calm better than the mugger who looked like he was about to shit his pants. Judging by the way the intruders’ faces turned aggressive rather quickly there was a rather good chance this person owed them. Pretty much all fights in the Black Market began like this. Unless you were in the boxer’s ring, trying to earn ration cards. In that case, both parties were there to fight.

Grif preferred to stay out of any and all sorts of fights which was why he silently stepped backwards until he could escape down another alleyway, jump over a broken fence and continuing the long way around the Black Market until he was home.

He faintly heard some shouting in the beginning of his escape, but he didn’t look over his shoulder to see how it all turned out. He’d put his money on the newcomers, though. He could almost smile at the thought of the mugger being beat up right now.

So while Grif probably wasn’t the fastest guy, his lungs hurt like hell after his run, at least he’d made it home without a scratch – and with the rations intact.

While home should normally be associated with peace and calm, it was hard to gain such luxury with two Grifs living in a worn one-room apartment. Especially with one of them being Kai.

“I hate you!” she decided to inform him the moment he stepped inside. A paper ball was thrown along with the words, hitting Grif square in the face. He blinked a couple of times before realizing it was the drafting notice. He should have thrown the damn thing out of the window when he had the chance. So much for trying to convince Kai he’d been granted a vacation in Area 1.

“Stop throwing shit at me, I brought food.”

He placed the packages on the counter before joining her on the couch. The cushions seemed to sigh as he sat down. Kai had pulled her knees close to her body, arms around them in a tight hug. When she finally looked up at him, tears were starting to form in her big eyes. “Asshole.”

“Don’t go blaming me, this sure as hell isn’t my choice.” He began to tear at one of the holes in the old pillow, pulling threads from the fabric.

She sniffed loudly. “You could say no.”

He really couldn’t. If that had been an option, he would have taken it.

“Yeah, like that would go well. Last time I checked, we enjoyed not living on the streets.”

Kai was now giving him a pouting look, and the trembling of her bottom lip caused him to look away. He had lost count of how many times she had used that trick on him when they were growing up. Why did it have to work every time?

Grif sighed, ignoring the sudden pain in the back of his throat. “It’s three weeks. Then I’ll be back. I bet you wouldn’t even have noticed I was gone if you hadn’t found the stupid note.”

“I would have. Your snores always keep me up.” She smiled for a moment before it faded away. “You’re going to be outside the wall,” she said so quietly that it was almost a whisper. Her voice was a mix of fear and fascination –despite the terrors of the outside it also lured them with an inborn curiosity.

“Well, _yeah_ ,” he snorted. “That’s pretty much what outside duty means.”

She frowned as she brought up the subject they had avoided so far. “What about the infected?” she asked, doing a pretty good job at keeping her voice from trembling.

It made sense to be afraid of the infected. That was a fear inside them all. Kai hadn’t seen an infected in 15 years. Not since the outbreak had happened and everything had been chaos. She’d only been two at the time, so she probably didn’t remember it.

Though she insisted the memory of that day still gave her nightmares. He could understand. He had those nightmares as well.

“They are on the other side of the wall. But, you know, far away from it. C’mon.” He brushed some stray hair away from her face. “You really think they would make me the only shield between the Zone and the infected? They’re assholes but they are not stupid.”

That actually made Kai smile for a moment. “I don’t know. You beat up Josh pretty bad, and you said he was like an infected.”

“I said he was as dumb as an infected.”

“Yeah, and he wanted to eat me too. The lower parts of me at least.”

“ _Kai_.” He groaned and ran a hand across the face. “Just… I’m out there selflessly risking me life for the Zone so don’t you fucking dare get into trouble while I’m gone.”

“So it is dangerous?” Kai concluded, and that kicked-puppy look returned to her eyes.

Grif sighed and rearranged himself so he could wrap an arm around her shoulder. “Nope. Look, it’s a wasteland. You know that. They bombed the shit out of the place. No infected.”

“No infected,” she repeated, digging her fingers into his worn, orange shirt. She tilted her head. “So why the fuck do they need you anyway?”

“Patrolling, I guess. To scare the shit out of the unfortunate assholes that want to break in. It’s probably gonna be boring as hell but, well, opportunity of a lifetime to get on the other side of the wall. Lucky me.”  The attempt was weak, and he didn’t even put effort into sounding convincing. “So do me a favor and _don’t_ think this is your chance to go wild. No boys, no parties, no pregnancies.”

Kai stared at him with widened eyes, dropping her jaw. “But when you are home I’m not allowed to hold parties either!”

“For obvious reasons,” he muttered under his breath. He buried a hand in her messy hair, playing with the curls. “And don’t think I won’t find out about it. I’ll fucking kick a hole through the wall and march back here to yell at you.”

“Or you could just stay,” Kai muttered into the orange fabric of his shirt.

“Three weeks,” he told her again, turning the too long duty into a comfort somehow. Three weeks where they both had to make sure not to die. Despite it all, Grif was pretty sure Kai would have the hardest time. “Or, you know, they’ll realize I suck and kick me out. There’s always what option.”

* * *

Perhaps the worst part of it all was the fact that he was forced to show up at 06.30am. But knowing the consequences Grif was at the Armed Forces Management station on time, yawning every thirty second. If the military wanted him that badly, they had to accept him with bags under his eyes and a bored look on his face.

They shoved a gun into his hands and had him line up with the other recruits, shoulder to shoulder. Time to meet his new squad. He counted fifteen individuals in total, and apparently one had failed to show up. Soldiers were sent to his property immediately. As they marched past Grif he couldn’t help but feel relieved that he had decided to go along with this shitty job.

As the officer, apparently named Miller according to the big badge on his uniform, told them about the importance of this duty and how much it meant for the city and what they had to be careful with and why they had to listen closely and yada yada yada, Grif took a glance at the miserable group he’d been forced into.

He recognized most of the faces from people he had stumbled across in the slum. The ragged outfits and that certain smell that just clung onto them usually made it clear which Area they were from. He supposed most of them had been drafted because they had lost their former jobs. He even remembered the name of one of them – Hammer, who he’d sometimes bought supplies from at the Black Market.

But some of them clearly came from other Areas, especially the guy Grif was standing next to. The shiny new gear gave it away. No one from the slum would wear clothes without holes or stains or patches, and even though the guy was wearing a bullet vest like the kinds the rest of them had been given when they arrived, he still stood out with his shiny military helmet.

Too bad for the rest of them if they received a bullet to the head.

The visor had been pushed upwards to rest on the metal instead of actually shielding the top of his face with thick glass. It gave Grif the chance to take a good look at the guy. The first thing he noticed were the many freckles so visible upon pale skin, and that his expression was a focused one; the guy was biting his lower lip as he stared at their officer who somehow still had things to talk about.

Despite the fancy gear he did not look like a soldier. Too lanky and skinny, and he gave Grif the impression that he might start crying if he had said something mean.

Grif considered the nickname Freckles for obvious reasons, but it sounded to cheesy so work as in insult. He went with Shiny instead.

“Dexter Grif,” someone yelled because apparently it was time to go through the list again.

“Here,” he grunted, sounding just as interested as if they were about to inspect the giant concrete wall for cracks.

Shiny sent him a sideways glance.

Grif took that as his opportunity to shove his elbow into his side. Shiny barely stopped himself from doubling over before sending him a look that would only have been suitable if Grif had just killed a stray kitten in front of him. “What was that for?” he asked in a low, angry whisper while his eyes darted towards the officer.

“Do you know when these guys give us lunch break?” Grif asked quietly.

The guy dropped his jaw. “Wha-? Are you serious?!”

“I’m starving. You think I’d make jokes about food?”

“Well, I don’t know, shut up and leave me alone.”

Shiny’s blue eyes stared at him for a moment, an annoyed look in them, before he returned his focus to the officer who was marching back and forth as he called out names.

Grif huffed to hide his amusement. “You don’t have to be a dick about it.”

“I’m not – We’re not supposed to ta-“

“ _Richard Simmons_ ,” Officer Miller said in a tone that made Shiny’s face grow blood red in a matter of seconds.

Oh well, apparently he wasn’t named Shiny any longer.

“I’m here, sir,” he squeaked, voice breaking when a displeased glance was laid upon him. They apparently were not allowed to talk. Who would have guessed that?

He seemed to calm down a bit when the officer continued to on scream at the next person on the list.

“Wow,” Grif said in a low voice but without missing a beat. He gained eye-contact with his new teammate who still had a furious glint in his blue eyes. “You really are a Dick.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"Shit hasn't gone viral. It's gone fungal."_  
>  -Dan Bull, "The Last of Us"
> 
> Here we are. Believe it or not, I've been working on this thing for a year. First of all, this fic is gifted to the lovely Mio who has been listening to me talk about this thing for so long, who's listened to me work on it, give up on it, doubt it, work on it again, throw it away, work on it again, etc.  
> Without her support, this idea wouldn't have grown into a fic, so thank you for this <3
> 
> Look, I normally don't like AU (I do love Universe Alterations - Like in "Shake" or "If"). I don't hate them or anything, they are just typically not my style. But I have one weakness - the survival genre. I love it. And I've played a lot of The Last of Us, and one of the first thing you find is a drafting notice, and my mind went "lol, that would be Grif in this world..." and here we are, a year later. I admit, I'm quite nervous, posting this AU, but I've received so much support from so many people, so here we go.
> 
> People who play the game will obviously feel more at home in this world, but I hope readers who haven't played the game can keep up as well. I don't want to drop all the info in one chapter, so I will continue to explain more in the next chapters about the infected, about the Zone, and what happened at the day the infected broke out, and etc. But if you get very confused, let me know, and I'll explain the best I can.
> 
> In the game we get to see Area 5 and the slum plus the outskirts, but I wanted to explore the idea of the differences between the Areas a bit more, so I had to make up a little about Zone 1, though I've stuck to all the info I could find. But the game mostly take place outside the QZ - and this fic will as well.
> 
> Man this note is getting too long.
> 
> Also, Hazk needs a big freaking thank you for listening to me trying to build this world since summer, and he's helped me with a lot of ideas. Thank you so much <3  
> And thank you to Chaos-Child, Creatrixanimi, Sticknotedoodler and Hazk again for looking through my first couple of chapters to make sure I got everything right! I really want to introduce this world slowly but surely, and you guys have been an amazing help. Thank you! <3
> 
> Well, I hope you guys like it! Feel free to leave a kudos or thoughts! This is gonna be a long ride.
> 
> As always: English isn't my native language so I apologize for any mistakes, and you can find me on tumblr as riathedreamer.


	2. The Kissass

At least all those drills back at the military school sorta made sense now. Not that he’d begun to appreciate all the mornings he’d been pulled out of bed and dragged outside into the training yard. The officers or caretakers or whatever they’d been supposed to call them had made a big deal about the fact that his little sister had done better in the tests than him.

So what if Kai had been weirdly flexible while he’d been slow and chubby? None of them had wanted to become soldiers anyway, despite how the entire system seemed to try to shape each of them into one.

But at least he knew how to use the gun they’d been given. Most of their crew did, anyway. Even though civilians weren’t allowed to carry weapons, pretty much everyone had a knife or worse on them. The lucky ones kept a gun though they could only pull that off in the deepest part of the slum where the military knew to stay away.

Only the guy from Area 1 – _Shiny_ or Dick or _Kissass_ which had become his new nickname of choice for the nerd – seemed nervous when holding the pistol. Which was a rather pitiful sight, seeing how he was covered in full fucking armor. If you didn’t know better, you’d almost think he was the super soldier sent out to protect the wall on his own.

But after just five minutes of getting to know him, Grif doubted he’d be able to even handle a dog with rabies. And it wasn’t just because the guy looked like his back would break if Grif tripped over him. Despite the extra protection he still looked nervous, staring at his gun as if that was the real threat.

Sure, there was a possibility one of the other soldiers would shoot a bullet up his ass and then run into the night, but they all wanted to get back behind the wall again. It didn’t mean someone wouldn’t shove Shiny towards a horde of infected if they got the chance. Grif wondered if the kissass would make it through the next three weeks.

His presence even annoyed Grif. The guy was from freaking Area 1 where the rations didn’t get cut, so _why_ was he so freaking skinny? Grif would love the extra food if the guy wasn’t going to eat it anyway.

So maybe it was just pure fate that Officer Miller ordered the two of them to partner up for the patrol. Or maybe he just hated their guts.

Kissass replied with a ‘ _yessir’_ , of fucking course, while Grif just shrugged. He was stuck with Kissass, but it could probably be worse. Most of the soldiers looked like they wanted him dead, anyway. He’d received a lot of death glares since the _incident_.

Yeah. Maybe he shouldn’t wonder how long Kissass would make it. He should just think about himself and made a note to never go into a shadowed area with any of the more dangerous looking guys. The ones who didn’t seemed to mind wasting their limited supply of bullets on him.

Officer Miller had made it very clear why they were here. Apparently, an entire squad had gone missing last week. Which, well, probably wasn’t the best info to receive on the first day of work. It certainly hadn’t lifted the mood.

Military had needed men and so they’d made a draft happen. Even idiots could work as meatshields.

Now they had to spend their days walking in the middle of a wasteland, keeping a lookout for infected or survivors trying to either get in or out of the zone. Kissass had been given the scanner to check for infection. Grif had been given extra bullets to put through their heads if the test turned out positive.

“Do you ever wonder why we’re here?” Grif asked out loud as they walked. The outskirts were pretty much what he’d expected. It was a shithole, to say the least.

There was almost no vegetation, except the moss crawling up the giant wall. Everything was just dead. It had rained the day before, leaving the dirt soggy beneath their dirty boots. Grif almost lost one of his when the mud refused to let it go.

His partner froze and turned around, even though his visor shielded his expression. “Because Officer Miller told us to?” he asked in a voice as dry as the bread they’d been given this morning.

There were still some ruins left from what had once been a part of the city. Grif stepped over some layers of bricks that had once been a house. “That’s a lame answer,” he said and looked over his shoulder. He could still see the wall from here, a contrast to the rest of their surroundings. It somehow looked taller from this side. Even more intimidating. It was beginning to be dark enough for him to see the lights of the watchtowers placed on the top of the concrete.

“If you don’t like my answer then why did you ask?”

Grif kicked a stone and continued to walk. There wasn’t much else to do. They hadn’t even been given a jeep. Something about such a thing being way too valuable for newcomers. “Just think of how lucky we were to actually get to live inside a Quarantine Zone, behind wonderful, tall, safe walls. And now we’re here. Outside the walls. Which are still tall. Really tall. But now we’re on the wrong side.”

He should probably just shut up. It wasn’t like he’d been that talkative during his previous jobs. There’d been the casual banter and jokes, sometimes death threats, but mostly he’d just focused on either getting home or finding a spot where he could nap while no one was watching.

But here, in the outskirts, it was just so fucking _quiet_ if someone didn’t break the silence.

Finally Kissass answered him. “…It kinda sucks,” he agreed, to Grif’s surprise. He pushed his visor up again, revealing his freckled face and the red hair clinging to his sweaty forehead.

Grif turned his head. “Yeah.” At least it seemed that no matter which Area you were from, the threat of being torn apart by infected still sucked. “Fucking draft, huh?”

Kissass’ promptly dropped his jaw. “You were drafted?”

“You weren’t?!” Grif exclaimed, mimicking his shocked expression. Who the fuck would volunteer for this shit? “What the fuck is wrong with you? Is this- this is Area 1 thing, isn’t it? You’re all fucking crazy and careless ‘cause you have it too good.”

“If you want to be a part of FEDRA, you have to have served outside the wall. So it’s kinda common? I guess?” He’d started wringing his glove-covered hands while looking at his muddy boots. “And with the incident last week we were told they needed new men, so they thought it was time for me to… prove myself.”

Grif stared at him. FEDRA – or the Federal Disaster Response Agency, if you had enough air in your lungs – were the guys who controlled all the military. This kissass better be good at kissassing if he had such high hopes for the future.

It was kinda admirable, really. To have such dreams. Grif’s plan was just to keep his sister and himself alive for as long time as possible.

 “And now you got stuck with a bunch of draftees. Sucks to be you,” he said while also aware that being himself at the moment sucked too.

“It’s not… It’s not _that_ bad,” his partner said, though his tone indicated he didn’t even believe that himself.

Grif wondered why you would sign up to do something you hated. Especially when you weren’t starving. “Bet it’s nothing like what you’re used to,” he muttered as they began to walk. They’d been told to report back if they saw anything suspicious. Which was pretty much any sign of life. Anyone was suspicious these days.

But there’d been no infected so far, which had been the biggest relief. No travelers trying their luck with getting into the city either. They should have learned to stay away at this point. They wouldn’t be let in. The military wasn’t risking the chance of accidently letting someone infected inside.

There’d been no smugglers either. That was good. Grif wasn’t sure what he’d do if he’d stumbled upon someone. He’d bought illegal goods several times in his life, whenever he truly needed medicine or some extra food. So what if they slipped under the wall. Or over. Or whatever secret way they used. People needed them. Too bad the military wanted them shot for breaking the rules by leaving the zone.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Kissass asked, one eyebrow raised.

Jesus Christ, how naïve was this guy? “You’re not exactly popular here,” Grif explained dryly. He knew he wasn’t the only one in the group that had noticed Kissass’ (Timmon- Simon-, what was his actual name again?) shiny gear. He was obviously better prepared and protected than the rest of them. Hell, his gasmask strapped to his leg even looked new. Grif wasn’t sure his old one even worked.

The guy even looked surprised. Hadn’t he noticed any of the death glares he’d gotten this morning? “Well, I wasn’t exactly popular back behind the wall so maybe I haven’t noticed the change… Not that anyone hated me back home or anything! I- I was pretty cool! Not the cool kid, you know, but, uhm, my old biology teacher always gave me top grades and-“

“Yeah, I have the feeling you had a lot of friends,” Grif cut him off, and the guy finally took the hint and fell quiet.

The further they came away from the wall, the bigger the ruins became. Some of them actually had parts of the roof left. Another building had lost half of its walls, allowing Grif to look inside and see the old rotten furniture. There were even some faded paintings on the wall. It left a strange feeling in his gut.

And then, when they reached the top of the hill, the sight became clear to them. In the distance, the wasteland ended, and big tall buildings rose from the dark ground. A city, complete with skyscrapers and everything. It almost looked untouched – besides the collapsing buildings and the overgrown plants they could see even from here – but still. No wall. Definitely completely infested with infected. But there was no military in there either.

Grif couldn’t help but stare at this forbidden city, way out of their territory.  They weren’t allowed to go there. Unless they wanted to die, of course.

He barely even noticed that Kissass had come to stand next to him, staring at the surviving part of the city as well. “I remember when they dropped the bombs,” he said, almost casually.

Grif’s eyes flicked towards him for a moment. “Me too.”

It’d been just after they had gotten the walls up and had officially declared it a Quarantine Zone. But the survivors, infected or not, all clamoring that they were clean, had kept trying to get in. Eventually the place had been filled with wild infected, attacking everything that moved. So the solution had been to make a wasteland for the military to patrol, ensuring the safety of the wall.

Grif remembered pushing himself and Kai under the bed when it had happened, feeling the floor and walls shake with every explosion.

But that had been – what, 15 years ago? Maybe more? It was easy to lose track.

Still staring the city in the distance, Grif’s hand found its way inside his pocket and pulled out the old package.

“What are- Are those cigarettes?” his partner actually gasped, as if he’d pulled a gun on him or something.

“Yep.”

“You can’t smoke those!” Now the guy had his hands on his hips. He was being serious. Apparently.

Grif held one cigarette between his fingers without lighting it. “We’re in the middle of nowhere, dude. Pretty sure I can.”

“But I’m right next to you! It’s disrespectful!”

“I’ve been saving these for a special occasion.” The only reason why he had them was because he’d won game of poker back in Area 5. He’d been hoping for some extra rations or something, but he wasn’t complaining. He’d spent half of them, and now he was down to five. He didn’t know why but suddenly he felt like having one of them.

“Looking at some rotten buildings infested with infected in the distance? That’s your special occasion?” his partner said dryly. The sun was setting behind them, coloring them in an orange light. He suddenly became very aware of the drying mud on his uniform.

He placed the cigarette in the package again, then back into the pocket. Kissass was probably right. There’d be better moments. Hopefully. “I’ve never been this far away from the wall before.”

“Me neither.” There was a moment of silence that probably meant something, and then he continued, “But I don’t go ruining my lungs because of it.”

“You know what, I think I’ll save these for when I can celebrate having survived three weeks with an uptight kissass.”

Said kissass rolled his eyes at him, turning away to face the evening sun instead. “…That’s still not a reason to ruin your lungs.”

* * *

“We’re going to be late,” the redhead said, practically grabbing Grif by the arm and dragging him along. Which really didn’t help with the idea of trying not to trip over yourself, since _it was dark as fuck_. The sun set quickly at this time of the year.

Grif struggled to keep up, cursing whenever he stubbed a toe against a brick. Hadn’t he guy heard you had to be quiet to avoid the infected? Just another reason to take your time. “So what? We can just say we were extra focused on patrol. We found a suspicious puddle of mud or something. They’ll buy it.”

“ _No_. They’ll think that you were slow, which _you are_ , and then they’ll blame me for not telling you to hurry up, but I did that – you just didn’t listen – and then Officer Miller will still think I’m a bad leader.”

“So what? Pretty sure Miller is not the thing we should be worried about out here.”

“Can you just shut up and walk faster?” Kissass snapped at him, not even looking over his shoulder as he quickened his pace.

Oh well. Grif was eager to get back as well, but only because he knew he’d finally be allowed to rest. He was pretty sure his blisters had blisters.

So being forced to walk quicker didn’t really help his sores.

And then Kissass just stopped walking, without any warning or anything, so that Grif stumbled into him from behind. It was a miracle that the nerd didn’t fall over from the impact. Or maybe it was just the fact that Grif had been walking slowly in the first place.

“What are you-?” Grif asked before looking around him. “Oh,” he breathed, glancing down at the two bodies in front of them.

There was Hammer with a bullet in his forehead, lying next to his gunned down partner. Grif kicked him slightly to be sure, but he was dead too.

On the bright side – these guys hadn’t been killed by infected.

Kissass said nothing, his mouth a thin line on his pale face.

“Welp,” Grif said, kneeling down to grab the remaining ammunition from their pockets. “I’m pretty sure they won’t be mad at us for being late now. ‘sides, we might be late, but these guys will be lat _er_.”

“That isn’t funny,” Kissass said with a tense voice, still staring at the bloodied bodies with widened eyes. “Or grammatically correct.”

Yeah, Grif didn’t really feel like laughing either.

* * *

“-and so we immediately contacted our assigned officer which is – well, which is _you_ , and we told him – well, you know what we told him since he’s you but – uhm, we reported the incident and followed protocol, and all in all I’d allow myself to call it a very successful patrol, sir.”

The lanky man finally stopped his rambling, wringing his hands nervously, pulling the fabric of his gloves as he awaited a response from their officer.

Miller rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Simmons, we just lost two men, and you call it successful?”

Right, that was his name. Dick Simmons. Grif would have to remember that from now on.

Despite the darkness, Grif knew that the rest of their squad was keeping an eye on the scene. They were just pointing their flashlights in a different direction to make it less obvious.

Simmons gulped so loudly that even Grif heard it. “I did? Uhm… I did. But I didn’t mean-“

“A successful patrol would have kept this from happening in the first place. We have a breach, you didn’t spot the stragglers and their current location is still unknown. How is that a successful patrol, Simmons?”

Simmons froze again, his shoulders at the same level as his ears. He really should have put down his visor to hide how his eyes had widened in fear. The guy looked like he was close to a panic attack.

 “Well,” Grif said, clearing his throat, and he didn’t flinch when Miller’s hawk eyes fell on him, “at least there’ve been no infected.”

“So far,” one of the guys in the group snorted. Grif recognized his scarred face and broken nose from the slum, though he didn’t remember his name. “Give Grif a day or two and we’ll probably be overrun.”

Grif clenched his fists but said nothing, not even when he heard the snickering spread through the rest of the group.

Miller sighed but finally turned around to give the rest of the group his attention. “Until the stragglers have been found, we’re doubling the amount of patrols.”

“But _why_?” Grif asked before he could stop himself. His sore feet were just begging him to protest. They’d suffered enough for today already. “Those lucky bastards wanted to get out of here. I don’t think they’re coming back. _Sir_.”

“Did you just call them _‘lucky’_ , Grif?”

That little _‘sir’_ at the end had obviously not helped. Miller sounded like he was going to feed him to the nearest horde of infected. Simmons was standing behind him, looking at Grif with widened eyes.

“They, uhm, were pretty lucky that we didn’t spot them. Sir,” Grif tried again. His obedient smile was probably weak, but finally Miller turned away, satisfied with the scolding.

When all the orders had been given, and one unlucky group had been sent out on night patrol, and the others retreated to the big tents that had been prepared them, Simmons approached Grif again. He was looking less nervous now. Not that he seemed happy and carefree – instead he had this weird almost soft expression that Grif just couldn’t read. It was actually quite annoying.

“Maybe they were trying to get in,” he said as they were unfolding their appointed sleeping bags.

Grif frowned. “Huh?”

“The, uh, stragglers. You kept talking about them like they’d fled from the QZ. But… they’re probably trying to get in. Why would anyone leave the zone?”

“Maybe they didn’t live in Area 1,” Grif couldn’t help but say bitterly. But he knew, deep inside, that Simmons was probably right. Damnit. Even living in the slums was better than living outside the zone, where the infected were free to feed on you. “Or maybe they were smugglers.”

“Maybe.” Simmons bit his lip. “It’s still a stupid idea to leave.”

Grif sighed deeply. “Yeah.”

“Simmons,” Miller’s loud voice suddenly barked, causing them both to freeze.

“Coming, sir!” he replied, getting out of the tent faster than Grif could blink.

He slowly got up, watching through the opening to see Simmons following Miller towards the watchtower, walking at his heels like an obedient dog.

When Grif turned around he suddenly found himself face to face with the asshole from before, the one with the snarky comments.

Apparently, he still had something to say. “You know what Hammer told me yesterday? The last time I saw him?” He took another step forward, seriously invading his personal space. “He said you’re bad luck. Funny, huh?”

Then he walked past him, knocking his shoulder painfully against Grif’s in the process.

Grif tried not to wince. “Yeah. Funny.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the support for the first chapter, guys!
> 
> And thank you again to Chaos-Child, Hazk, Stickynotedoodler and Creatrixanimi for helping me with the first couple of chapters.
> 
> We're slowly getting into the plot - a tiny part of it, at least. This fic is gonna be really long, but here's the beginning of the action.


	3. The Fight

“Wait, I see something!”

Simmons nearly tripped over his own too long legs, and Grif had to hide a grin at the sight. His teammate quickly scrambled towards him, falling to his knees as he fell behind a piece of wall that Grif used as cover. After preparing his pistol, Simmons slowly peeked over the edge.

It was probably a good thing that he was wearing his helmet. Otherwise his fiery red hair would probably have given away his hiding spot.

“Is it one of the stragglers?” Simmons asked him. The whisper was followed by a gulp. “Or… infected?”

“Nope.” Reaching out with his hand, Grif pointed at the movement he’d spotted. There. Right next to the fallen metal trash bin. “A rat.”

“A…” Simmons blinked, slowly turning his head to face him. “A _rat_?

He nodded, raising his gun as he tried to take aim. Sure, he’d never done that well in the drills back in the military school, and this was a small target, but he might as well try. “I’m hungry.”

“Please tell me you’re not going to eat the rat.”

He rolled his eyes. “Not _raw_.”

Apparently, that comment didn’t calm down Simmons who continued to stare at him with widened eyes. When he saw Grif’s finger brush against the trigger, he snapped at him, “We aren’t allowed to waste bullets like that!”

“It’s not a waste if you hit it.”

“You’ll just attract infected.”

That hushed threat was enough to get Grif to lower his pistol. A disappointed frown decorated his face when the vermin disappeared behind some bricks. “How long ‘til dinner?” he asked as he stood up, straightening out his sore legs. When he’d received the drafting notice he’d expected a lot more shooting, and a lot less walking. Not that he was complaining about the lack of action.

“Two hours,” Simmons said dryly. He strapped the pistol to his thigh before continuing the patrol. At least it’d stopped raining after midday, but it still left the ground muddy.

Simmons’ uniform was a lot less shiny now. Not actual battle damage, but the constant marching all over the wasteland. Yesterday evening Grif had seen him trying to scrape dry mud off his boots, but he’d quickly realized that was a lost battle.

Sergeant Miller had even reduced their amounts of break after the attack. Just another reason for Grif to hate him. It’d been almost a week since they’d found Hammer and his friend, and there’d been literally no progress since. Miller claimed it was because they’d increased security, resulting in less unwanted activity, but Grif called bullshit.

In his mind, the stragglers had crawled under the wall (or jumped over. Some secret passage or something. How should he know?) and had tried their luck across the wasteland, stumbled into a patrol, shot them dead, and they continued their way into the dark, dangerous, fungus-infected freedom ahead. In Simmons’ mind, these survivors had travelled across a dead world in their hope to get into a quarantine zone, and when they’d run into the soldiers, they’d known they didn’t have the right papers, and so they had shot the soldiers before they could ask for them, and they’d made their way into the zone, probably settling in the slum where they could try to make use of this new safety.

With no leads, they couldn’t decide who was right. Not that it changed anything – they were supposed to apprehend all survivors found wandering out here.

Grif tilted his head upwards, looking at the grey sky. Yeah, it’d probably start raining again before they could retreat to their camp. There was nothing like walking around in a soaked uniform.

But it was better than being torn apart by infected. That was pretty much how he’d imagined his fate when he’d lined up at the Armed Forces Management station. But he’d survived so far, and he’d only seen two dead bodies. Hell, he’d seen worse in the slums.

And partnering up with Simmons actually became more and more manageable as the days passed. Sure, the guy was a pain in the ass and oblivious as fuck, but at least he wasn’t trying to sneak death threats into every sentence, like some of the other draftees.

Grif looked towards the skyscrapers in the distance and sighed tiredly. Yeah, he could do this. Even if he returned home with thousands and thousands of blisters on his feet.

“Fucking _shiiit_!”

From the corner of his eye, Grif watched Simmons simply… disappear. The sight should probably have been alarming, but the way his teammate had flailed with his arms just added a comedic element that Grif couldn’t resist.

He walked forward until he reached the edge Simmons had been standing on before the wet dirt had collapsed. Now he was standing a few meters below Grif, in the middle of a ditch, covered in mud from top to toe as he’d slid the entire way down. “Fucking _fuck_ \- Goddamnit!”

Grif whistled. “That was elegant.”

“Just keep a look out for infected,” Simmons snapped at him while trying to shake off the mud clinging to his clothes. It was hard to see the reddened cheeks through the dirt.

“Why?” Grif crouched down before slinging his legs over the edge as well. “You have like _the_ perfect camouflage. Were you taught that trick back in your fancy schools in Area 1?”

“ _No_ ,” Simmons hissed. He’d just wiped off most of the mud from his gloved hands before he dug them into the side of the ditch as he tried to crawl his way upwards. But he couldn’t get a secure grip, and his unsuccessful attempts were followed by a string of curses. “Grif, can you-“

His question was left unanswered when Grif suddenly landed next to him, having slid down into the ditch as well. When Simmons had recovered from the wave of mud that had hit him, he narrowed his eyes. “Why did you do that? I needed you there so you could help me up!”

“No fucking way, dude. I’m not going back to the others to tell you that I’d left you in a ditch. They’ll probably shoot me before I even got to tell them it was because you didn’t look at where you were going. You’re some important-ish person, right? Or supposed to be.”

Right now, with Simmons covered in who-knows-what, it was quite hard to imagine him being a person of importance. But that had to be the case, right? Why else would _Simmons_ , who seemed afraid of his own trigger, be out here? And he was from _Area 1_. Everyone was important there. As important as you could be in a dead world.

“Uhhhh, no?” Simmons stuttered, blue eyes flickering away from him. “Why would you think that?” He pulled down his visor, probably to hide his glance, but it just resulted in a muddy fingerprint on the glass. He sighed loudly.

Grif shrugged. “’cause you’re from Area 1. Aren’t you all military in there? I bet your parents have a high-up position in FEDRA.”

“S’not… I mean, my dad is in charge of the FEDRA activity in the Valhalla Zone, but-“

“So I was right,” Grif concluded. See -  he could be smart when he wanted to. “And that’s why you’re here.”

Simmons turned his head away from him, probably looking for a way out of the ditch. There wasn’t exactly much to work with. The soggy ground was covered with a few various items, mostly metal and plastic since the wood had rotten away. In the end of the ditch an entrance to a sewer pipe could be found, and it was responsible for leaking smelly water.

“Well, partially,” Simmons said and tried to push an abandoned fridge. “It just… seemed like the right choice.”

“I don’t know. I’d imagine you stuck in a lab somewhere, experimenting on rats. Don’t they have scientists in Area 1? They keep telling us all some sort of bullshit about a new attempt on making the cure. I mean, if it didn’t work the first thousand fucking times, of course they’ll crack the code now.”

He watched as Simmons kept trying to move the fridge, despite the fact he’d been pushing it against an unseen rock for the last half a minute. When he finally gave up, realizing his problem, he moved to the side of the big object and began to push again. “I considered working in the laboratories,” he admitted through heavy panting. “But… It didn’t really work with the family traditions. Besides, I’m not sure if I… had the courage to be a scientist.”

“Okay, let me get this straight – you were too scared of a lab, so you decided to go with the safer option that includes being surrounded by bullets and infected? Yeah, I see the logic in that.”

“It’s just… What if there is no cure? I don’t want to be the one to discover there’s no way to fix this.”

“C’mon. You really think they’re gonna make a cure?” Grif snorted.  He wouldn’t exactly call himself a pessimist. More like a realist. He’d forgotten about a possible cure years ago.

He bit his lip. “Maybe at some point in the future.”

“I’m sure they said the same thing ten years ago.”

“Yeah…” Simmons’ voice trailed off, and he was quiet for a moment before shaking his head and bowing down to place his hands on the fridge again. “Just help me push this thing.”

“Why? I was thinking we could hang out here, in the shade, for two hours,” Grif snorted but he still helped his teammate push until it was near the edge. Using it at a stool, they managed to get a hold secure enough to pull themselves up.

Having escaped the ditch, they lay flat on their stomachs for a moment, their chins in the mud. Grif resisted the urge to just close his eyes and nap, but a cold feeling in his gut reminded him that chances were infected would just appear the moment he began to sleep.

“Do you think they watched all of this?” Grif asked, tilting his head towards the wall where they both knew the watch tower was casting its light on the wasteland in broad columns.

Simmons shuddered, either from embarrassment or cold. “I hope not.”

When he began to walk again, Grif followed him without complaints. Mainly because he hoped the movement would bring back some warmth in his body. “So… Regretting your choice about becoming a soldier?” he asked to keep the conversation going. Simmons looked tired but not pissed off. Grif had witnessed the nerd lose his temper some days ago when he’d suggested to just _not walk_ and then tell Miller they had indeed walked. Simmons’ voice had broken like three times while he had yelled at Grif.

Simmons looked over his shoulder to meet his eyes. “It’s alright, I guess. Well, some peopled died and that – that’s not exactly good, but we haven’t even had to use our guns yet.”

“I’m not complaining about the lack of zombies.”

“They are not _zombies_!” With a dramatic spin, Simmons turned around to stare at him wide-eyed, as if Grif had suggested something as crazy as letting people eat as many rations as they wanted or stuff like that. “They’re _infected_. With the Cordyceps Brain Infection. There’s a scientific explanation. We’re talking about a fungus that infects the host’s brain and causes hyper-aggression. Science. Not supernatural stuff with dead bodies digging their way from the grave.”

“That’s not what my old books are saying.”

“ _Books_? You read?” Simmons asked him in a tone of mocking disbelief.

Grif just rolled his eyes. He suffered from way worse insults before. “I do. So trust me here; I’m an expert.”

“You? An expert?”

“Yep. I even have proof. My books tell the whole story. Zombies. That is what people scream when they dig their way up from the grave.”

“How- That does not make any sense.” Simmons was frowning now, looking at Grif as if he was a puzzle. “How could something from the old world explain the infected when the infected didn’t exist at the time the book was made? And infected don’t come from graves; they’re not even dead!”

“I’m just saying I have the sources. Lots of pictures and everything.”

“Oh, really?” Simmons crossed his arms with a snort. “Let me guess; you read all this in a comic.”

So maybe the books were more like some colored pamphlets that Grif had managed to buy cheap from a very drunk smuggler who hadn’t realized it was basically a robbery. But that wasn’t Grif’s fault. Now the comics were some of his most treasured items, hidden under the mattress. Kai loved reading them as well. When they focused on the colorful drawings and got sucked into the story – always ending with that stupid cliffhanger ‘cause Grif hadn’t been able to get his hands on the next issue – it was like being back in the old world for a while. Before the infection had screwed everything up.

“Whatever,” he said, shrugging it off. “It’s still from the old world so it’s cool.”

Simmons opened his mouth – and then promptly closed it again. It took a minute before he actually said a word, and when he did, he almost sounded ashamed. “Could I- could I borrow it? When we come back?”

Not so much of a prude now. Poor guy was almost blushing at his own question. It was a silly question, of course. As if Simmons would come all the way to Area 5. And the soldiers sure as hell wouldn’t let Grif go to Area 1, not with his excuse. Nothing to see here, officer, just trying to bring these comics to my _friend_ , heh, in Area 1. Yeah, Grif had friends in high places, alright.

“Huh. Didn’t pick you for a nerd, Simmons. Wait, I take that back; I totally picked you from a nerd from the first time you opened your mouth. I just thought you’d be above comics.”

Simmons cleared his throat and looked straight ahead. “It’s for scientific research.”

“The comic?” Grif deadpanned.

“Y-yes. Look, I study about the old world, okay? While comics aren’t the most reliable source they still serve as an artifact from their time. You can really get a good understanding of their view of society, if you just know where to look.”

Grif frowned. _Old world_. _Their society_. Like they hadn’t been a part of it. Kai was too young to remember, but Grif still had a few memories. He’d been, like, five at the time, so it was scarce memories. But still. And he figured Simmons was about the same age. He’d seen a peaceful world, once.

And now they were here, _studying_ their own fucking past, as if it was some kind of fantasy land.

But he didn’t say his thoughts out loud. Instead, he asked, “You’re studying ‘bout the old world? Didn’t you say your father groomed you to be a high-up military asshole?”

“I study in my spare time,” Simmons said shortly. He hunched up his shoulders. “Can I just borrow it or not?”

“Sure,” Grif said, shrugging. Might as well give the nerd something to look forward to in his life. Even if it was all just an idea that would never come true. “If we by some fucking miracle survive this mess, you can take a look at my comic. But I expect payment. And interests. 10 percent.”

“It’s just a comic.”

“No, according to you it’s a valuable artifact. And I bet you have way better access to extra rations than I have.”

Simmons looked like he was about the argue, but perhaps the last comment caught him off guard since he closed his mouth again.

It’d become dark enough for them to turn on the small flashlights attached to their vests.

“Well, if I was wrong about the whole zombie thing,” Grif said now when Simmons had fallen quiet, “are they then still living-dead?”

 “Well, they are living,” Simmons said, and then his voice changed, growing darker than Grif had heard it before, “The question is how dead they actually are.”

* * *

Grif managed to snatch the extra ration bars down into his pockets before anyone could see him. At least, he hoped that was the case. No one yelled at him, and that was a good sign. He barely dared to imagine what Miller would do if he caught him.

Oh well, the soldiers inside the Quarantine Zone had always threatened to throw criminals outside the wall so they could get torn apart by infected. But the joke’s on them – Grif was already outside the wall.

They had taken shelter into one of the tall buildings the wall was connected with, allowing them to eat without rain getting in their food. Grif moved closer to the middle of the room, where his fellow soldiers-for-a-month were gathered, sitting around a led lantern.

“-no need for the scanner. If I see fucking mushrooms growing from some guy’s face, I’m gonna shoot him.”

“Actually,” Simmons cleared his throat and immediately gained everyone’s attention. Grif fought the urge to sigh – of course Simmons would start an argument with some unimportant stranger just to get all the facts right. “The appearance of fungi depends on which stage of infection the host is suffering from. The orange eyes appear one or two days after the infection, when they have become Runners, but it’s first in the second stage you’ll see actual fungal growth on their face. So if you see a guy with so-called _‘mushrooms’_ growing on him, it’s in fact a Stalker, meaning the infection has been happening for at least a month. Or, well, it could be a Clicker, but then it’s been at least a year, and you’d be in serious-“

He was cut off by the soldier in the dark shirt, the one who had been speaking just before. “Did we ask for a lecture?” he asked Simmons dryly, arms crossed.

“Uhm… No.” Simmons frowned, taking one step backwards. “I just… If you’re worried about one of your teammates being bitten, you shouldn’t wait for their appearance to change until you believe it. It’s… Well, look for the eyes or change in behavior, or… or bitemarks, and-“

“No fucking shit,” asshole sneered. “Look for bitemarks if you think they’re bitten. How stupid do you think we are?”

“Not- not _that_ stupid,” Simmons said, as if that was helping his situation. Grif tried not to face-palm.

But then asshole smiled, though it wasn’t directed at Simmons. Instead, he turned his head to stare at Grif. “I’m sure Grif can settle this argument. Did Jimmy have mushrooms growing on him?” It was quiet for a moment. Most of the faces in the room had darkened with only a few confused expressions between them. Asshole laughed briefly before continuing, “Oh wait. I forgot. _You don’t know_.” It was followed by a mocking snort, perhaps in disbelief. Grif wasn’t sure.

But he didn’t really care. He tilted his head before saying, “That’s right, asshole. I don’t know.”

And with that he spun around to walk to the other part of the room, towards the wall that had been decorated with a large map. Grif stared at it intensely. Not because he was interested in seeing where the city walls ended, or where the last infected horde had been spotted, or the _X_ on the eastern side which was the last place the missing patrol had sent back signs of life.

But standing like this, with his back to the group, allowed him to eat his stolen snack in peace.

He’d just shoved the last bite into his mouth when he felt a presence behind him.

“So…” Simmons began, voice unsure. “What’s that about?”

“Assholes being assholes,” Grif said while chewing. Simmons probably wouldn’t tell on him. Probably. “Not that you’d know.”

“What does that mean?”

With a sigh, Grif turned to face Simmons. He looked straight into a frown. “Are you trying to get beat up? ‘cause it looks like you’re trying to.”

“I wasn’t…” The red spots appeared on Simmons’ face again. “I was just trying to offer some advice!”

“You don’t-“ Grif managed to cut himself off. With the nerd’s current expression, he probably had to explain the entire situation for him, slowly, like when he’d taught Kai about the colors. “Simmons, these guys hate you.”

“They-“ His eyes widened. Was it really that hard to believe? “They hate me?”

“See, that’s that stupid naivety I’m talking about. Do you want to know how to not get beat up?”

“…Yes,” Simmons finally admitted, eyes drifting towards the group in the other end of the room.

Grif gestured for him to follow him. They’d survived the entire day, meaning they could finally return to their sleeping bags. Grif was not going to wait any longer to sleep. It was his reward for a long day filled with work. “You don’t stay out of fights because you’re a coward. Doesn’t change the fact that you’re a coward. _But_ you stay out of fights because whatever fuckhead is in the position to yell at you will punish you, they will take away your food and your home, and I like not being hungry and not dying in the streets. So I don’t fight. Assholes will still be assholes, though. But here’s the trick. Next time they call you a nerd or a stuck-up or a kissass or a brownnose or-“

“Do you have a point?” Simmons asked him dryly, cutting him off.

Grif sent him a small smile. At least the nerd could admit what he was. “Just ignore them. I mean, they’re right about all the insults, but you already know that so why care? Best trick in the world, Simmons. Don’t care. Not caring keeps your stomach full – or, well, half full: there’s always room for improvement.” He threw up his hands in fake amazement. “’ _Don’t give a shit’_ – Dexter Grif’s handbook to survive the apocalypse.”

“Hey, Grif.”

He froze. Sure enough – asshole had decided to join them at the sleeping area. Well, even dickheads had to sleep, but something in this guy’s eyes told him he wasn’t planning on creeping under the covers just yet.

Asshole smiled. “Just to ease your mind – if you should die a painful and horrible death out here, your sister can stay in my apartment. Won’t be the first time she’s found her way to my bed.”

Grif threw the first punch. It was a good one, too. Right on the nose that began to bleed, even though it only took the asshole a few seconds to recover. Then he pounced on Grif.

The rest was a bit blurry from there – probably due to the fist that hit him in the head. But Grif knew how to fight back – life had taught him that much. But other assholes decided to join the fight as well, apparently, since there suddenly were too many fists flying around.

Apparently, for some fucking reason, Simmons had decided to join the fray too. Grif learned that much when his elbow suddenly made contact with a face and a familiar yelp rang through the room. He’d witnessed Simmons trip over a loose brick too many times to not recognize the sound.

“Private Simmons,” Miller’s voice suddenly cut through the room, and the hands that had been pinning Grif to the floor let go. “ _Grif_.” He rolled over to look up at his Sergeant. He didn’t seem very pleased with the situation. “Night patrol. _Now_.”

Simmons was on the floor next to him, bleeding from a small cut on his cheek. His lip actually quivered when he tried to protest, “But-”

“You better be thankful I’m not lining you up in front of a firing squad,” Miller glared down at him, lightning in his eyes. “Gear up, _now_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me describing the fungal infection: “holy crap, that’s basically Omega”.
> 
> A lot of dialogue in this dialogue. I’m trying to slowly get more into the infection itself, though I promise to explain it more deeply throughout the fic. Readers familiar with the game will of course know right away what I’m talking about. I hope I don’t make stuff too confusing.
> 
> And in the next chapter we will finally get into some action. I’m looking forward to it.
> 
> Thank you for all the support!
> 
> Edit: Just fixed mistakes where Grif and Simmons say they are from Zone 1 and 5. Those are not zones but Areas. There is one Quarantine Zone, split into 5 Areas, and I've accidently used the word Zone instead.


	4. The Runners

“This is your fault,” Simmons snarled at him, but it came out rather weak since he was pressing both fingers against his nose in order to stop the bleeding. It sounded more like stuff-nosed sneeze, actually.

So Grif didn’t really feel threatened. “Hey, I didn’t throw a punch at you,” he said, holding his flashlight towards Simmons so he could see how much blood was on his fingers.

“It was _your_ elbow against _my_ nose!”

“You weren’t even a part of the fight.”

“Exactly! _I_ was trying to pull your fat ass out of the fray so that Sergeant Miller wouldn’t throw you to the infected. And look – _HE THREW US TO THE INFECTED_!”

“Relax,” Grif said, waving him off. “It’s nighttime duty. Some unlucky bastards have been surviving this for like two weeks now. So this doesn’t mean that we’re doomed to die tonight.”

“According to the others we _are_ doomed because of _you_ ,” Simmons muttered angrily. He kept kicking stones as they slowly made their way forward, their flashlights illuminating the path. “ _I_ was the one who volunteered! _I_ am actually here to protect our home! Not because I received a _drafting notice_ because I was too lazy to keep a job in the first place! _I don’t deserve to be out here!_ ”

Grif whistled and tripped over a loose brick in the darkness. “Good to know you’re not living up to your Area 1 reputation, Simmons.”

“I’m just saying that collective punishments are highly unfair when 50 percent of the punished individuals are innocent!” Simmons groaned loudly before throwing out his arms. “I was doing just fine! Yesterday Sergeant Miller even told me that I was showing a surprising progress!”

“…That’s not really a compliment.”

Simmons’ head snapped towards him, and Grif’s flashlight made sure to reveal the angry frown on his face. “It’s better than anything he could have said about _you_!”

“So here’s an idea,” Grif said, keeping his voice levelled and dry. He’d taken worse insults before. It didn’t matter that they were coming from Simmons now. “If you don’t want to be eaten by infected, maybe you shouldn’t go around yelling.”

There was a moment where he was sure that Simmons would shout something back at him, but then the nerd shut his mouth so suddenly that his teeth clicked.

The silence was better, Grif supposed. It made it easier to focus, at least. Besides their flashlights, they only had the beams of light from the watch towers on top of the wall, that would travel back and forth across the wasteland in a slow pattern, illuminating the ruins and sudden ditches where the road had broken after the bombs.

Grif wondered if the guards in the tower could see them from here, if they were laughing at them. Night time duty sucked. While he wasn’t like Simmons who seemed pretty sure that this punishment was equal to being put in front of a firing squad, Grif still wished this whole thing hadn’t happened.

Mainly because he’d looked forward to finally being allowed to sleep. They’d been walking the entire day – and now they had to walk the entire night. Yeah, this was pretty much the hell he’d imagined outside duty to be.

But it that didn’t mean that he regretted his choice. Asshole had deserved it. Area 5 was filled with guys like that, so how could Grif worry about infected when he knew his idiot sister was on her own in the slums right now? If there was a random guy sleeping on _his_ couch when he came home, he’d punched his teeth out. He wouldn’t survive this infected no man’s land just to return to such a sight.

Kai’s so-called ‘skills’ with men (and woman, if you counted everyone she’d made out with – and that was a long list) did at least help her survive, in her own weirdly erotic and degrading way. _If_ he didn’t make it back him – and that was a big _if_ – then he could at least know that Kai would always find a place to sleep, in case she lost the apartment.

Sure, it wasn’t the best life he’d imagined for her, and it sure as hell didn’t work wonders for his legacy that was pitiful enough to begin with, but at least she wouldn’t starve to death in the streets. Kai was a people person. Grif was a… food person? At least expired snack bars never called you nasty names.

He stubbed his toe against something unseen in the darkness again, and he swore under his breath. He narrowed his eyes in pain and looked up. Simmons was further up ahead, and he didn’t extend his hand to help Grif crawl on top of the rubble that had once been a house.

When he finally made it to the top, he was panting heavily, doubling over to rest his sweaty palms against his thighs. “Holy crap,” he breathed out. “I think I’m having a heart attack.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” Simmons said dryly. His back was turned to him so he could stare into the darkness, knowing the remaining old city was in front of them, even though his flashlight was far too weak to show the tall buildings in the distance.

“Can you imagine climbing the wall?” Grif asked to keep the conversation going. “Like, how do they do that without dying?”

“First of all – they’re in better shape than you. I know that for a fact, because I have literally never met anyone in as bad shape as you. Second of all – they can’t. The wall is 32.8 feet tall.”

“ _Why_ do you know that?” Grif held back a groan. Sure, everyone could see the wall was fucking tall, but only a nerd would know its exact digits. “Now I get why most people crawl under the wall instead of over it.” He didn’t know _how_ people snuck into the Zone, but there were always rumors of secret tunnels that the military were trying to shut down. Grif never asked much into it – he knew how to not seem suspicious.

Simmons said nothing but continued to stare right ahead, as if he could actually see anything. Grif placed himself right next to him, adjusting the flashlight strapped to his vest so he could see his teammate’s face. The visor from his fancy helmet kept Simmons’ blue eyes hidden, but Grif could clearly see the dried blood above his lips that’d been pressed into a thin line.

“What happened with Jimmy?” Simmons then said, still avoiding Grif’s glance.

“What the fuck, Simmons?” he blurted out, even though he’d been prepared for this. With all the idiots back at the wall, it was only a matter of time before Simmons would become too curious. “That’s like asking a guy about his dick size.”

“I…” Simmons blinked, being taken by surprise. “What the fuck does Jimmy have to do with your dick?”

“You don’t ask about it,” Grif snorted and after a moment of consideration, he crossed his arms and added, “And you need to see it to believe it.”

“But… I’ve seen your-“ When the realization of what he’d just hinted at crept up on him, his face paled, and not even the awkward coughing did not help the situation. “You were the one who just pulled it out and began to pee _right next to me_! What are you – an animal marking your territory?”

Simmons’ face was red as a tomato by this point, but Grif was too worked up to actually enjoy it. Which was a troubling sign it itself – he’d been taking shit for months now, so why did it even matter that Simmons was being a bitch about the Jimmy incident? “It’s a no man’s land – that’s like a huge fucking toilet,” he continued because it was easier to talk about dicks than about why Simmons had to be a dick. “And _why did you peak_?!”

“I didn’t!” Simmons shrieked. “You were the one who-“

“I am so glad to have had this talk!” Grif cut him off right there. Partly because the conversation was painful enough to begin with it, but now the night had begun to grow cold with a light drizzle. Even though the military had given him a vest when he’d joined, the worn orange shirt he wore underneath didn’t do much against the cold. “How about we start walking before I freeze my ass off? Because if not, you’ll literally have to carry my fat ass.”

But Simmons didn’t move, and for the first time since they’d been introduced, Grif truly wish Simmons wasn’t his partner.

“Who is Jimmy?” he demanded to know, voice stronger than the last time he’d asked. Not that it mattered much since Simmons still had a tendency to stutter.

Grif sighed heavily and moved a hand to rest against his forehead. “Simmons, you have one person on this team who doesn’t hate you-“

“You don’t hate me?”

Why did he have to sound so surprised? And happy?

Now Grif just had to sigh again. “Jesus Christ, let me finish – Sergeant Miller doesn’t hate you. He’s just severely disappointed in you.”

From the corner of his eye, he watched how Simmons’ face fell.

So with a shrug, Grif continued, “But the rest of the team hates your fancy Area 1 guts, Simmons, and I’m the one who can teach you how to not get beat up.”

“…Your bruise on your forehead is starting to swell,” Simmons pointed out dryly. Raindrops had begun to gather on his visor, and he quickly wiped it away with the back of his hand. “The others said you attract infected,” he said quietly, keeping his glance low.

“Yeah – well, the others said that you sneak out with Miller every night to get extra rations because Area 1 people are used to eat twice as much.”

“I- I’d never sneak out in the middle of night to eat! That’s something _you_ would do!”

“So why do you think they’re right when they say I’m an infected-magnet?!” Grif snapped back at him. He shivered, trying his best to ignore how the rain was slowly getting through the fabric of his shirt.

“ _Because-_!” After a deep breath, Simmons’ voice became lower, “…Because of whatever happened with Jimmy.”

Oblivious as always, Simmons clearly didn’t get the hint. Any other person would be smart enough to drop the conversation and just keep walking in order to get out of the rain. But Grif was cold and he was tired and Simmons didn’t give up, for some fucking reason.

“Look, Jimmy and I worked at the same stupid storage. A couple of months ago, he just…  Went feral. You know?"

“But,” Simmons decided to cut him off, biting his lip in a thoughtful frown, “from when you’re bitten, it takes a day or two before the aggression sets in. He couldn’t just have turned into a Runner out of nowhere-“

“Well, he did.” He didn’t understand why everybody had to be so defensive about the fact, even when they were living in a world where a bite was a possible threat, even if you thought yourself safe. “Okay, so the bite was like a day old? They say he must have been digging in some of the closed off quarters in the slums, and he either didn’t know or he thought it wasn’t a bite or – We don’t know. I was his partner that day, moving boxes and stacking shit – just the usual stuff.”

He ran a hand through his hair, wincing when he felt how wet it’d become. Oh, how nice it would be to be inside in the warmth in a dry bed -  but assholes just had to be assholes today.

“…You didn’t notice,” Simmons concluded. He shifted the weight on his feet, almost losing his balance when the mud clung to his boot.

Despite his usual uptight nature, Simmons did at least not sound like he was judging him. When the news had spread, most had just been angry. Scared, of course, but that usually just led to aggression. Simmons just seemed like he was pitying him. Which wasn’t much of an improvement, really.

“I noticed he was a bit… twitchy,” Grif said, remembering how Jimmy’s shoulders had been jerking whenever Grif had said his name that morning. “And not that talkative. But I just thought it was lack of sleep or- or girl troubles. Dude always talked about his stupid girlfriend. How should I have known?!”

“Because we are supposed to report all suspicious behavior to the nearest officer!”

“Well, I didn’t!” Grif snorted back at him. “I asked if he was cool with me taking a nap, and when he didn’t reply, I thought it was an obvious yes – because it technical isn’t a no, and I was just thinking logically, okay?!”

“You… napped.” Simmons looked almost dumbfounded which was weird – he had, after all, known Grif for weeks now.

It’d been a good nap, all dreamless. Not that he didn’t come to regret it later. “When I woke up 14 guys were dead. Jimmy had gone berserk on everyone in the storage plus the two soldiers that’d tried to stop him.” Technically not all of them had been killed – but they’d be bitten which just ended in the same fate. The soldiers had put them down the moment they’d discovered the bites. He remembered hearing the sound of gunshots when they walked him down the hallway, outside and into the air that didn’t feel heavy with blood. “I climbed out of the closet and was almost fucking shot ‘cause they thought I’d been infected.”

“But you aren’t infected.” It didn’t sound like Simmons believed his own words, and Grif was not even surprised. He knew that Simmons’ eyes were being narrowed behind the visor, turning into suspicious slits, just like all the angry and frightened and distrusting glares he’d been met with when he’d walked down the streets the weeks following the accident. “…Are you?” he finally asked, and there came the question that was bound to appear.

Grif didn’t even bother to sigh. “This happened months ago, Simmons. Use that brain you always talk about.”

“…The others said they can’t believe you walked away unscathed,” he mumbled at this point.

Grif understood the disbelief. Hell, some days he still couldn’t believe he’d survived that day. All the odds said he should have died that day, and yet Dexter Grif was still roaming around, stumbling his way through life. It probably wasn’t _fair_ but he sure as hell wasn’t going to complain about it.

But he shared the disbelief with literally everyone else in the Zone – asking _how_ he’d survived, _why_ he’d survived. And eventually that disbelief always turned into something darker, something that meant unfair accusations and hateful glares and frightened whispers. It’d meant rejected job applications and ambushes in the slums and threats being directed towards Kai – Kai who’d never doubted his explanation even once.

The same couldn’t be said about his teammate who was staring at him, lips pressed together and back uncomfortably straight.

“For fuck’s sake, Simmons, do you wanna check for bites or what?” It was almost laughable when he saw Simmons’ finger brush against his back pocket.  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Grif said even though he’d always been aware that Simmons had been equipped with a scanner.

They hadn’t bothered giving the fancy, handheld device to Grif. Miller had said chances were he’d just break it. Grif hadn’t really bothered to argue against it. He liked sitting on his ass. He didn’t need his back pocket filled with what looked like a seriously upgraded calculator.

“Fine,” he said when Simmons’ hand closed around the scanner. “Just get it over with.”

He crouched down in front of his teammate, knee going deep into the mud. He couldn’t help but feel satisfied about how Simmons’ expression twisted into one of discomfort when he dropped in front of him.

Pulling down the collar of his shirt to allow Simmons to get access to his neck, Grif didn’t even flinch when the cold metal pressed against his skin. It only lasted about two seconds before the device beeped, and a worried thought hadn’t entered his brain during the time. He knew he wasn’t infected. They’d scanned him back then, over and over, and had come to the same conclusion. There hadn’t been any spores for him to inhale, and Jimmy had been killed before he’d even spotted Grif.

“You’re clean,” Simmons declared weakly, taking a step backwards.

“No shit.” Grif let go of his shirt as he stood back up. He could feel how the muddy ground had caused water to soak the fabric on his knees. It’d still be hours before he was allowed inside anywhere dry and warm. “If I’d been bitten back then, there’d be mushroom all over my face, Simmons!” he grumbled as he eyed his teammate put the scanner back in his pocket.

“…It’s called fungus,” Simmons muttered, head low.

For a brief second Grif’s thoughts wandered off, and he wondered what would have happened if the scanner had flashed red. Back inside the wall the military would waste no time putting him down. Usually that meant a quick-working poison injected into a vein, but out here there’d probably just choose the old-fashioned method of a bullet through his head.

For some reason, he couldn’t quite imagine Simmons pulling the trigger.

“Can we get a move on now?” he asked, pushing those thoughts aside. “Or do you want me to strip and check for bite marks?”

Simmons’ face turned crimson with embarrassment. “I don’t want you to strip,” he mumbled under his breath as Grif walked past him.

“Good.”

“Yes.”

They continued their patrol in silence, this time with Grif taking the lead and Simmons a couple of steps behind him. Despite the exhaustion clinging to his bones, Grif told himself it was a good thing to walk faster – it’d keep him awake and somewhat warm and it’d get this shit duty over with quicker.

Simmons, apparently, had run out of the energy that being a kissass just created naturally, and that was the weirdest part of this whole thing.

But Simmons wasn’t commenting on it, so Grif sure as hell didn’t either.

The rain had begun to grow stronger, and he wished he had something fancier than his orange shirt – something with fabric that didn’t look like spiderwebs at the elbows, something that wasn’t filled with patches and holes.

Someone poked his back.

He turned around to see Simmons – of course. The infected didn’t fucking poke you before tearing your face off. They just growled and groaned and lashed out before you could see it coming.

Simmons looked oddly pale, and it didn’t help when the light beam from the watchtower slid through their position, turning Simmons’ skin pearl-white and making the shadows on his face more evident.  “Grif-“

The light disappeared at the same time the explosion could be heard.

Grif felt the ground shake just slightly, pebbles jumping against his boots. “Uhm, what the fuck was that?” he asked. His flashlight was still able to reveal Simmons’ presence, though it embraced him in a weak orange light that didn’t match the strength of the beams from the wall.

Simmons still looked pale, though now you could probably not blame the light. “Oh shit, oh shit-“

“Was that the watchtower?” Grif asked, turning towards the wall. Without the light beams it was impossible to make out the damage in the darkness, especially from their distance. But when he tilted his head towards the sky, the moon revealed the dark cloud of smoke rising from the area on the wall.

Simmons gulped loudly enough for him to hear it. “It’s- it’s gotta be the Fireflies,” he said, fists clenching at the mention of the rebellious militia group. “They- they’re the ones always exploding stuff!”

It was hard to deny that fact. The Fireflies didn’t hesitate to take the honor every time a jeep exploded or a bomb went off in a checkpoint or a military patrol was gunned down. Grif knew that several members of the illegal group hung out in the slums where no one truly dared to hand them over to the military, despite the bounties on their heads.

The citizens in the slums were probably the ones who understood the group’s reasons the best. They all suffered from the brutal treatment from the soldiers – they knew they would be the first ones to starve when the rations got low.

Grif shared their frustrations but that didn’t mean he wanted to bomb people. Still, the Fireflies continued to grow in members from what he heard. But rumors also said that more and more Fireflies were getting arrested and executed. He supposed that sort of kept their numbers at a standstill.

“Oh well,” he said with an odd sense of relief in his voice. “At least we’re out here. Sucks to be the guys in charge of the radio.”

“Radio…” Simmons said in a near-whisper. Then he suddenly jumped into action – pulling his handheld radio to his mouth with so much force that Grif wondered whether he’d just ruined his belt. “This is squad 2B checking in at Tower 4. Do you read us, Tower 4? Do you require assistance?”

The last question had Grif moving closer to him, frowning. “What the fuck – I’m not assisting shit at places that are exploding!”

Simmons ignored him and instead he focused completely on the radio that wasn’t giving them a reply. He shook it before trying again, “This is squad 2B-“

“Simmons-“ Grif said, noticing how his teammate raised his voice in panic. Without the bright light, he slowly became more and more painfully aware of how far away they were from the wall. The wasteland had become a black void, and the only thing his flashlight was close enough to illuminate was the ghostly-white face of a shocked nerd.

A month ago, Grif would never have pictured himself in the middle of this situation.

“-and we’re in the middle of a wasteland-“

Grif froze, feeling the cold sensation of shivers down his back. “Yelling is probably not a good idea-“

It was a wonder Simmons hadn’t broken the radio at this point with how tightly he was holding it. “-and _you’re our only line of communication in case something goes wrong! Please don’t be exploded.”_

“ _Simmons_.”

“Uhm, squad 2B signing out,” he said as he finally let go of the button. He turned towards Grif with a clenched jaw. “What?!”

Grif didn’t answer, and in that silence the groans could be heard. The moans and hissing were desperate and aggressive, like a human core had been torn apart until only animal instincts were left behind – mouth biting and snapping, and hands reaching out for the nearest prey, then scratching and flaying until broken fingernails met bones.

He’d never seen a Runner up close before, and even now it was still a sight to be seen, since the darkness hid them from his view. But the painfilled throat-wrecking groans were not to be mistaken.

For a moment Grif and Simmons’ eyes met, the radio falling from the latter’s hand.

“I’m blaming you,” Grif just had the time to say.

And then he ran.

The darkness only worsened the already seriously fucking bad situation. The flashlights only revealed the obstacles in front of them just in time to work their way over or around them. They never stopped – the screaming and groans could be heard just behind them, and they never even took the time to look over their shoulders.

Simmons was the fastest of the two, and Grif quickly realized that fact. He could see his teammate a few feet ahead of him, using a fallen mailbox to get to a higher ledge.

Grif followed right at his heels, digging his fingers deep into the ground in order to pull himself up. Simmons didn’t stop to offer him a hand, but Grif didn’t blame him at this point. He could feel his own instincts taking over – the strong need to _run_ , even though his thighs were burning and his lungs hurting.

He felt something brush against his boot and he didn’t dare to kick out, suddenly unsure if the infected could bite through the fabric. The Military School hadn’t prepared him for this, despite all their promises and their demands to have them practice their survival skills over and over.

Sure, he’d been taught how to shoot a gun, and he’d actually hit the target most of the times. But Grif didn’t really think the old dummies they’d been shooting at in school worked the same way as living infected that were moving a bit too fast for his liking.

If he should attempt to aim, that meant halting his escape and spinning around, waiting until they were close enough to get into view – and Grif preferred to keep a good distance between him and the monsters trying to kill him.

And with the limited supply of ammo he’d been given, he really didn’t want to waste bullets. He hadn’t brought along extra ammo.

Despite how his vision had begun to swim with exhaustion and his heart only beat faster and faster, Grif blinked when he noticed the change in surroundings. The muddy ground had been replaced with cracked concrete, and instead of ruins, Grif had to maneuver between rusted cars and road signs.

They were in the city.

Grif didn’t have the time to admire the plant-covered skyscraper in front of him before they were on their way inside. The façade that had once consisted of windows allowed them to climb through, and Grif didn’t bother to look out for shards of glass.

The groans seemed louder now, and he could feel them reach for him as he stumbled to his knees. Simmons was already in the next room, deeper inside the building, but he’d left the door open.

The moment Grif was on the right side of the doorway, Simmons slammed the door closed.

Grif doubled over, quite sure he was about to throw up his lungs. “I’m-,” he said between hissing pants, “- _dying_.”

“No, you’re not!” Simmons snapped back at him. He had his entire body pressed against the door, and he shook whenever an infected lunged itself against the barrier, snarling as it attacked. “You’re helping me! Now!”

“What am I supposed to do?!” he asked while managing to straighten out his back. His entire torso seemed to ache.

“ _Something_! Just-“

“Have you tried locking it?”

“ _Of course_!” He let out an actual squeal when the door opened by an inch, making him slide backwards. The mud on his boots left a trail down the floor. “It needs a key!”

“Where am I supposed to find a key-“

“ _Find something else_!”

‘Something else’ turned out to be the table from the room across the hallway. Grif swore when he had to push it through the narrow doorway, but it just fit in size. The extra work didn’t help on his nausea, however, and by the time he’d returned to Simmons he could taste bile in the back of his throat. “Here,” he said in a pant.

Simmons let go of the door as he pushed the table forwards.

And for a split second one Runner made it halfway through. Grif’s flashlight revealed its face, and it looked surprisingly human. Its mouth was askew in the middle of a groan, and Grif stared right into its orange eyes, watching how the veins bulged around the area. It screamed at him, and it sounded almost human.

Then Simmons joined him at the end of the table, helping him push, and the door snapped shut.

Not knowing how long it’d last, they both backed away before starting to sprint again – through the open doorway, turning a corner, and then came the-

“ _Stairs_ ,” Grif groaned, having met the true enemy in his life. But he didn’t stop running as he followed Simmons up three floors, until he chose to open the door to the hallway instead of going up more steps.

This door had a locking mechanism, and Grif clicked it shut.

Then his legs collapsed.

Simmons was in front of him, hands on his thighs. The helmet fell of his head, clanking against the floor.

They both flinched, expecting the worse.

But only their ragged breaths filled the air until eventually, their breathing slowed down. Grif felt the sweat cool down on his back, mixed with the rain. The cold was almost relieving, and he smacked the back of his head against the door, too tired to keep it upright.

“I-“ Simmons finally said, struggling to find his voice. “I dropped my radio.”

“Is that your biggest worry right now?” Grif grumbled. As if the rest of the team would even bother to look for them. Hell, it’d probably take them way too long to realize they hadn’t returned from patrol, and by then they’d probably just celebrate Grif’s death. Probably Simmons’ as well.

Grif groaned. His left leg wouldn’t stop shaking. “I’m never. Moving. Again.”

“Well, I’m not dragging your fat ass back to the wall so have fun getting eaten alive here.” Simmons had walked to the windows that made up the façade of the room. With his face pressed against the glass, Simmons had his back turned on Grif.

Grif wondered if Simmons could see anything. From here, everything just seemed dark.

“We have to get back,” Simmons then concluded, pulling away from the window.

“No shit. I don’t wanna be the lone survivor that turns crazy and ends up eating his own arm.” With a groan he pushed himself upright. His legs protested painfully, and he sent them a mental apology.

Simmons returned to the middle of the room, reaching for his helmet. “We have to go back _now_ ,” he said again, voice strangely fragile.

“Sure,” Grif snorted. He widened his eyes two seconds later when he realized he was being serious. “Oh c’mon.”

Simmons was pacing back and forth, leaving dirty footprints against the wooden floor. “If the city is being attacked by Fireflies, we need to be there!”

“Uhm, _no_.”

His head snapped towards him. “We’re supposed to protect the wall, Grif! And a part of it _just blew up_!”

“Well, only the upper part! Not like anyone can crawl through.”

“That doesn’t matter. Let’s just- let’s just move. Before they- they find us again.”

For a moment none of them talked as they listened for any indication if the Runners had followed them up here. But there was no moaning or sneers or the sound of bodies trampling the way up the stairs.

Grif took in a deep breath. “Simmons, it’s the middle of the fucking night. It’s dark as shit. I’m tired. I haven’t slept, and in the last hour I’ve run a distance longer than all the distances I’ve ever moved in my life in total. I am not going back before I get a nap!”

“In the middle of a house filled with infected?!”

“The door is locked.”

Simmons smacked his lips together loud enough for him to hear. “Those will be your famous last words.”

“And those will be yours famous last words,” Grif spat back at him. “Followed by a lot of screaming and begging when they eat you on your way back to the wall _alone_.”

Instead of arguing against it, Simmons just bit his lip. They both knew he wouldn’t make it back on his own. Hell, they probably wouldn’t make it back, even if they stayed together.

But what else could they do but try?

“C’mon,” Grif said with a shrug. “Don’t you want to look around just a little before we walk down the thousand steps of hell? Like, a souvenir to say ‘hi, we just survived a horde of zombies’.”

“Infected,” Simmons muttered weakly but that was his only sort of protest.

For the first time since barging in here, Grif actually looked around to realize they were in the middle of an office. Desks were lined up against the walls with all the computers showing a black screen.

Dust had gathered on top of stacks with papers, and Grif couldn’t help but smile in delight when he found a bobblehead shaped like a Hawaiian girl. He flicked it with his finger. “You don’t find stuff like this back in the zone. Well, you kinda do, but these chairs haven’t been used in fifteen years, Simmons! They’ve been waiting for an ass to relax in them!”

Simmons snorted but still walked over to join him at the desk. “How can you focus on the chairs and not the computers?” he asked while pressing the space on the keyboard. Nothing happened.

“Not like they’re working,” Grif said and continued to walk down between the desks towards the other end of the room. Pre-outbreak stuff like this could be sold for a lot of ration tickets.

He might as well make this hell trip worth it. And to be honest – he’d prefer to first return to the city when it’d calmed down after the Firefly attack. He knew how the soldiers had itchy trigger fingers whenever the Fireflies had blown up a part of the Zone.

And he wasn’t going to run through the no man’s land in the darkness again. Hell, he was never going to run through it again. If they would make it back to the wall, Grif would insist on waking the entire way.

“But they _might_ ,” Simmons said as he dropped down on the office chair to lean closer to the computer screen. “Just, let me see-“

Grif found himself amused at the thought of how people had once come to work here every day, sitting in front of a computer screen until they were released. Now work consisted of training children, being medics, working in a storage to transport the limited supplies. Or you could be a soldier where you had the honor of protecting the wall, fighting Fireflies and killing whatever poor soul that showed signs of infection.

“It smells in here,” he said, wrinkling his nose. The stench seemed to grow the closer he came to the corner of the room. He wondered if he’d find a body behind the desk. It wouldn’t be the first time seeing a corpse – you’d sometimes stumble upon them in the streets of the slum.

“That’s just you,” Simmons said, reluctantly leaving the computer that refused to turn on.

“Haha,” Grif said dryly, reading the name plates on every desk.

Simmons sniffed before shrugging. “It’s probably the rotten wood.”

“The wha-“

The floor beneath him collapsed. He just managed to yelp before his foot went through, and then the rest of his body followed. He managed to get a grip on the remaining floorboards, but he could feel his hands slipping.

He expected falling to his doom.

He didn’t expect Simmons’ body to suddenly slam against the floor as he threw himself at the edge, his gloved hand wrapping around Grif’s wrist.

Grif looked up at him in surprise.

Simmons stared back at him, eyes widened and jaw set.

While Grif could appreciate the attempt to save him, it wasn’t that successful. But he should probably blame himself and his fat ass for dragging Simmons down with him through the hole in the floor.

Though, he’d prefer to say it was just Simmons being weak.

It didn’t really matter, actually.

They both fell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the Fireflies are slowly being introduced. But I’ll explain more about them in later chapters.
> 
> This chapter was so freaking long. You better enjoy it XD
> 
> Next week I’ll be writing for the RvB angst war, so expect a lot of one-shots. I am still very open for prompts, so be sure to leave an ask at my tumblr called riathedreamer to send me an angsty idea for me to write!
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Also: I’ve fixed the mistakes in the two last chapters where Grif and Simmons say they are from Zone 1 and 5. Those are not zones but Areas. There is one Quarantine Zone, split into 5 Areas, and I've accidently used the word Zone instead. I hope it still makes sense. Simmons is from Area 1, Grif is from Area 5, and they all live in the Valhalla Quarantine Zone. I hope it all make sense, I’ll try my best to remember the system from now on XD


	5. The Note

When Grif opened his eyes, Simmons was already up and panicking.

Which was good – that meant Grif didn’t have to deal with Simmons' mangled corpse and all the consequences that would bring.

_But_ it also grew annoying pretty quickly, especially with Simmons’ voice getting shriller by the second.

“ _Ohmygod,_ oh no no no no! This isn’t- Oh shit. This can’t be- _Help_! Wait, only help if you’re not infected and- _Fuckfuckfuckfuck_ fucking fuck it, how do we get out of here, how do we-?!”

“Simmons,” Grif muttered as he slowly got up. When he tried to push himself to his knees, he noticed that the floor was covered in inches of water. It smelled and he grimaced when he pulled his hands from it.

But he probably shouldn’t complain – at least he’d landed with his face upright and avoided suffocating in smelly, rotten water on top of shitty, rotten wood that truly failed at being a good floor. He groaned, knowing that fall must have left bruises, but, well, it hadn’t killed them either.

In fact, Simmons might be the one to do him in.

When Grif moved he spun around, pistol raised with shaking hands. A second afterwards, when Grif had let out a maybe not so dignified yell of fear, Simmons’ eyes widened and he quickly lowered his weapon. “Grif? Sorry, I thought- Shit. This place is infected…”

“Well, I don’t see any zombies,” Grif said, standing up and shaking the last remains of adrenalin off himself. Well, at least Simmons hadn’t been enough of a nervous wreck to actually pull the trigger.

“For the last time, they’re not _zombies_ ,” Simmons hissed, still keeping a tight grip on his gun. “Oh shit, they could be everywhere… We’re outside the wall! It’s- _everything_ is filled with infected out here!”

Grif just shrugged. When they were quiet like this, he couldn’t hear any groans or snarls from infected. The only sound seemed to be constant dripping, and he tilted his head to see where the water drops were coming from.

He could see the whole they’d fallen through, from the floor above them. Water was dripping from the splintered wood, falling until they hit the big puddle below.

Maybe they could climb back up there, but Grif wouldn’t count on it. The walls were too tall, with this being some sort of hall, and there was nothing they could stand on. Pieces of the ceiling seemed to have fallen onto the rotten furniture, and the few folding chairs that still looked somewhat functional wouldn’t give them the height they needed.

Hell, and the conference scene was in the other end of the hall, where the ceiling was still intact, giving them no exit.

And judging from the way Simmons was pacing back and forth, he hadn’t managed to find a way out either. “We’re stuck,” he whined, hands tangled into his messy red hair. The helmet was lying a few feet away, seemingly floating on the water. “We’re fucking stuck-“

“Have you tried the doors?” Grif asked, because they had to start somewhere.

“There are no doors,” Simmons replied dryly, pointing at the end of the room that had turned into pure wreckage when another part of the ceiling had given in, apparently ages ago, judging from the plants growing all over the rubbles. Grif couldn’t even see the exit doors, much less get to them.

Well. Time to think creative.

“We’re stuck,” Simmons said. “We’re fucking stuck and we’re going to die and- _Why_ did we even come here? I- I followed you and- _You_ were the one who started the fight! _You_ were the one fat enough to fall through the floor!”

“Hey, the floor was rotten! You said so yourself!”

“That doesn’t mean you aren’t fat!”

“And you’re the one who yelled into the fucking dead radio, so maybe you should think about that before blaming for why we’re here!”

Simmons glared at him. “Maybe we should stop yelling then!”

“Yeah! Maybe!”

Then they both spun around to turn their backs on each other. While Simmons continued to wander around aimlessly, lamenting about their fate and how they were doomed to die and starve together – or get torn apart by infected, and Simmons hadn’t really decided which fate was worse -, Grif began to search for a way out.

He didn’t have his hopes up, but his time in the slums that taught him that most walls weren’t intact. There was always some way to get into a building – unless it was guarded by the military, of course. No way he was daring to sneak past them, not even with food on the line.

But out here, they certainly weren’t bound to run into any guards.

He tried to climb the debris, but quickly abandoned the idea when the surface beneath his feet trembled. He wasn’t interest in falling another level – his body hurt enough already, thank you very much. He wondered if the swelling on his face had started to gain a color.

“Shitshitshitshit _shitshitshit_ -“

He could hear the nerd mutter in the corner of the room, and he decided to leave him be. If the guy needed to break down a little,he needed space and quiet for that. Right? ‘sides, he probably didn’t want to talk to Grif right now.

Which was highly unfair, of course. The asshole insulting Kai had been the one to start the fight with his stupid attitude and stupid face.

And it wasn’t like Grif needed Simmons' help right now-

It was the spores that led him to it. Behind the remains of a broken whiteboard, a cloud with a greenish taint could be seen. Grif was torn between swearing or letting out a joyous yell. But he stayed quiet as he didn’t want to alert Simmons just yet.

Reaching down to grasp his fingers around the gas mask strapped to his thigh, he just hoped it hadn’t broken in the fall. He looked it over for cracks and decided that it was probably fine. It’d been given to him by the military when they’d received their uniforms, and they had all the good shit.

Unless, of course, they’d seen him as a meatshield and hadn’t bothered to give him a functional mask. Oh well. Only one way to find out.

He strapped on the mask, briefly wondering whether to ask Simmons if he could borrow his. It’d looked all shiny and new, like the rest of the nerd’s gear.

But that would require him interrupting the nerd’s rant-

“- _nothing_ like dad said it would be-“

-and Grif didn’t want to have his head bitten off just yet.

He took a deep breath, crouched down and went closer to the dangerous cloud. In a hall as big as this, the spores wouldn’t normally be a problem. They’d dissolve before they could be inhaled. But the vent that was revealed when Grif pushed the whiteboard aside was an enclosed space that’d be doom without the gas mask.

The metal cover that had once protected the vent’s exit had already been removed, and Grif raised an eyebrow. He wasn’t too keen on finding anyone in there, though the spores themselves were already a bad sign.

It’d be a tight fit, but Grif proved it possible when he managed to climb into the vent. He’d never complained about his weight before and he wasn’t going to start now. Breathing with the mask on always resulted in a raspy sound that reminded him of the old _Star Wars_ movies he’d used to watch when his mother wasn't home before the world went to shit.

The spores made it hard to see, and he fumbled his way through the green mist, constantly bumping his head and elbows against the sides of the vent. Simmons’ distant rant became more and more muffled.

And eventually, he found the culprit.

He’d always found it very unfair. Like, not only were crazy, brain-melted infected trying to bite them – the nature was out the get them as well! When the fungus had finished frying the brain, and the host had turned into a mindless, flesh-eating monster, it would still be mortal.

Grif knew it was possible to shoot infected to pieces or smash their creepy, fungus-covered heads into a bloody mess, but even if the infected was left mortally wounded, it’d still find a way to kill more people after it was dead. They were a real pain like that.

It’d crawl into a corner somewhere – like this fucking vent, Grif came to realize – and the fungus would continue to grow, sprouts shooting from where the eyes should have been, the body slowly becoming a part of the wall, with the fungus ever growing, sticking to the surface while the body grew brittle. And then it'd let out of the spores that would spread the infection if inhaled into the lungs.

Grif stared at the grotesque scene in front of him, a mix of fascination and nausea filling him as he saw how the fungus and the body seemed to melt together. The cloud of spores seemed thicker than ever, but Grif breathed in easily, steady, and the mask was doing its job. So at least he wouldn’t die choking inside a vent today.

But the body still proved a problem, filling most of the narrow space. Grif could see his goal behind its silhouette – the venter cover where the other hallway could be seen through the horizontal stripes.

He shoved his way forward, cringing when his palm connected with a dry, dead arm, and after a loud _crack_ a round of spores seemed to explode from it. But he continued to crawl forward, until he could press his elbow against the plastic cover that finally gave in and he could stumble out of the vent.

Grif stayed on the floor for a few seconds, checking for any noises. He couldn’t even hear Simmons here. But his plan had proved successful – for once. He’d just crawled his way to an empty hallway, and from here he could see at least three more doors they could try to pass through in their search for a way out of here.

And the best of all – it was quiet. No moaning. No infected.

He wanted to laugh, but surely this victory would first be sugar sweet when he could shove it in Simmons’ face.

But there was no way that Simmons would crawl through the vent with that body still in there. He could of course lie – well, technically it wouldn’t even be a lie. He’d just not tell him about the body. But he was pretty sure the guy would just die from a heart attack.

So he crawled back inside, grabbed the body by the shoulders and tore him loose. The loud _crack_ made him grimace, and he could hardly see anything with the spores being released again.

Dragging the body out of the vent wasn’t an easy task, and Grif cursed under his breath whenever he banged himself against the metal. When the body could finally fall onto the floor, he was panting heavily.

Out here, he could take a better look at the corpse, even though he preferred to look away.

And that was when he noticed the paper. It must have fallen from the poor guy’s pocket. He wasn’t dressed in a military uniform, but had instead been wearing jeans and a plan shirt, though it was hard to tell them apart now – the color had faded and the fungus had messed with the fabric.

It made Grif curious, truly. He understood the Zone must sound pretty damn good for anyone getting killed by infected every day. But on the other hand… They didn’t know how the Quarantine Zone actually worked. They probably saw the Military as the great defenders and… Well, they did defend the Zone. Just perhaps a bit too much?

People from the outside probably didn’t know that you could get shot if you glanced at a guard the wrong way, or about all the weeks where you’d get your rations cut while other Areas were untouched.

Rumors about all that probably didn’t spread to the rest of the dying world.

So Grif picked up the note, curious to see just what the survivor’s thoughts had been. Though, there was a pretty big chance it’d be rather depressing, if the note had been written after he’d realized he was doomed. Maybe it was a last request to bring his last words to a beloved inside the Wall or something. Not that Grif would have the time or interest to track the person down.

Not much of the paper had survived, with the fungus and the moist leaving the letters smudged. But near the middle, a few sentences had survived, allowing him to read:

_that Bitters was right. But do not tell the asshole that.  
No fucking way we will get the help from here. Bastards shoot on sight. We will return when_

Grif threw the paper back on the floor. Yeah, it only proved that the military was filled with paranoid assholes. Maybe they had their reasons, but-

He began the dirty journey of crawling back through the entire room, and when he was back inside the hall, Simmons was still ranting. He had, apparently, not noticed his absence yet.

“-and when they find us, we’ll be dead or- or infected! And then they’ll shoot us! And then we will be dead! And-“

“I found a way out by the way,” Grif interrupted him, and his voice made Simmons jump an inch into the air before spinning around to glare at him with widened eyes. The heavier man shrugged before continuing, “Just in case you wanted to know. I mean, we could stay here for some hours, lamenting about life. I’m pretty sure I have some childhood traumas I could yell about, let’s-“

“You did what?”

When Grif showed him the vent entrance, Simmons frowned at the sight of the spores but the tension in his shoulders disappeared when he realized Grif had spoken the truth – they could get out of here. “We need to put on our masks,” Simmons said, voice muffled behind his own unscratched gas mask.

Grif copied his motion but not because he was following orders – he was just using common sense. “No shit, Simmons.”

“And we have to be really quiet-“

“ _No shit_.”

“-so that we don’t alert-“

“Just crawl through the damn thing already,” Grif huffed, pushing him aside to be the first to escape.

In the tight space, he could almost feel Simmons’ breath against him. He could definitely hear his quiet cursing whenever he stumbled against the metal and placed his hand in the wet mess where the body once had been. “Vent too small for you, Simmons?” he snorted.

“I can’t see anything with your fat ass in the way.”

“Heads-up: there’s a body on the other side. Careful if you don’t want to step in rotten fungus.”

“…Why are you warning me?” Simmons’ voice seemed to echo against the metallic walls. It was impossible not to notice the suspicion in it.

“’cause otherwise you’ll just scream at the sight and we’ll be fast-food for infected. Don’t worry – I’m not trying to be nice.”

Once out of the vent, they quickly backed away from it, creating distance between the thick cloud of spores so that they could take off the masks and inhale deeply, breathing in fresh air.

“Where do we go now?”

Grif shrugged towards the rest of the hallway. “Pick a door.”

They did. In fact, they picked all of them trying to find a way out of the building. But even when they found a broken window, they realized they were still on the fourth floor and they weren’t quite ready to jump to their doom yet. Even if they survived the fall, broken bones didn’t mix well with nearby infected hungry for flesh.

The last door turned out to be a total disaster: a group of Runners were eating an unfortunate victim in the corner of the room, and Simmons slowly closed the door again. When he could lean his back against it, he let out the quietest _eep_ that Grif had ever heard.

There was the staircase left to explore, but the upper half had collapsed, and the one leading downstairs had been blocked by the debris. They kicked at it for a while, but then gave up.

Grif was sitting on the floor, taking a well-deserved rest and trying not to fall asleep.

Then Simmons said, “We could go upwards.”

Grif followed his stare to look at the torn landing that was out of reach. “How?” He was a tall – and big – person, and even he couldn’t even grab it with his hands.

When they both turned their heads, their eyes met, and as if lightning had struck, the idea suddenly hit them that they could help each other move forward.

“So do we, uhm-“

“Yeah, let’s-“

“Perhaps not, but-“

In the end, they decided to let Grif boost Simmons up. “Since I’d rather not break my back,” he said as he placed his foot in the round curve of Grif’s hands clasped together.

Grif grunted when he lifted him upwards. He was almost got hit by Simmons’ boot as the other man scrambled his way to the next floor, hand clutching the broken railing to pull himself the rest of the way.

When he was finally on safe ground – he screamed. It was choked and terrified but he seemed to muffle it with his hand a moment afterwards.

But the sound was enough to make Grif flinch – and for something to stir in the other end of the hallway. Grif gulped, remembering the infected in the room they’d left behind.

“I’m okay!” Simmons squeaked from above him. “Actually – I’m not. I- I really want to go home.” His sigh was so deep, it felt like it shook the dirty floor beneath Grif’s feet.

Or maybe the tremble was from the force of the danger that was slowly coming closer. Grif was pretty sure he could hear the moaning.

“Uhm, Simmons?”

“I’m okay!” he said again.

And the nerd’s bloodstained face appeared over the edge.

Now it was Grif’s turn to choke on a scream. “What the fuck-?!” It looked like he’d been a part of a bloodbath.

“How are we- I can’t pull you up! You’re too-“

“Are really going to turn this into a fat joke?” Grif said, trying to keep his voice steady as he looked over his shoulder and reached for his gun.

“How am I going to get you up here?”

“Find something or- _Shit_.” That moaning could not be mistaken. Grif kept his fingers from shaking as he raised his pistol. “Do you have any extra ammo?”

“Didn’t you bring some?”

Grif caught the little package that was thrown over the edge. “I wasn’t given any.”

“Fuck,” Simmons said and then he backed away.

The chances were he would come back with help.

Probably. Hopefully.

Nothing else to do but wait and hope. Oh, and shoot the incoming infected. They were snarling as they rounded the corner, and he pulled the trigger over and over, trying to sigh in relief when some of them fell, only to have the horror creep up on him again as he knew the loud noise would only attract more enemies.

He cursed under his breath, taking his aim again when one of the fallen infected kept twitching on the floor, arm reaching for him, even when another Runner stepped on its shoulder in its furious path towards Grif.

He tried to remember what they’d been told back in the military school – keep your feet apart, elbows locked, finger ready, listen to your teacher, _Dexter_ , or no dinner tonight. Do not hesitate. They are not human. Pull the goddamn trigger already.

“Grif!”

A metal, oblong crate flew through the air, hitting an infected in its contorted face. Grif didn’t waste any time, turning the crate so he could use it as a step towards the landing. The metal gave in slightly under his weight, but he managed to use it as a springboard.

And then Simmons’ gloved hand clasped around his wrist. “Why do you have to be so fucking heavy?” Simmons groaned as he pulled him upwards.

“Expired chocolate bars still taste good.”

He felt the outstretched fingers brush against his ankle, and he kicked out with his legs, trying to reach the railing with his free hand, until he was slowly pulled onto secure ground, stomach flat against the bloodstained surface.

Grif lifted his head, staring directly into the mangled face of a half-eaten corpse. Well, that explained Simmons’ scream. And why his shirt and face were covered in darkened blood. The nerd must have dragged himself through the mess by accident – and so he’d nearly suffered a heart-attack.

But he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the corpse just yet. Not after he’d noticed the familiar shaped helmet that had almost fallen off the head, and Grif’s glance travelled downwards, past the torn open throat, and he noticed the vest covering his body. Even past the dirt and blood, the faded grey color could not be mistaken, neither could the letters _F.E.D.R.A._ that were visible on the soldier’s badge.

Grif turned his head, watching the few infected that were almost crawling on top of each other to try and reach them. They were wearing uniforms, just like Grif and Simmons.

“I think we found the missing patrol,” Grif noted dryly.

Simmons nodded, face very pale. “Let’s find a way out of here.”

The way forward was slow as previous survivors had barricaded numerous doors. Grif didn’t see that as a good sign – that meant they’d been trying to keep something away. He could feel his own movements grow slower by the second, exhaustion creeping up on him.

The adrenalin rush from earlier had helped a little, but Grif would rather his heart stay nice and calm forever, just like it was used to.

Simmons claimed to have seen a fire safety map, a floorplan that had told him that if they kept heading east they’d find another staircase that’d hopefully be cleared enough for them to use. Grif wasn’t even sure how he was able to find an eastern direction but he was too tired to complain. Which was a really impressive level of exhaustion.

“Just so we’re clear,” Simmons said as they both pushed a desk away from the door they needed to head through. “We don’t owe each other anything. Right?”

“Huh?”

“I mean, you returned to get me through the vent. And I returned to help you up. So we’re square. Okay?”

Grif shrugged. It wasn’t like he’d been keeping count. “Sure. Why do you- _WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT_?”

He threw himself behind the desk, pressing himself against the wood. Simmons joined him a moment afterwards. Their arms were pressed together, and Grif could feel him shake.

Simmons whispered, obviously terrified, “Is that…?”

Grif gulped before finishing his sentence for him, nodding: “Bats.”

“ _No_.” Simmons glared at him as if he’d lost his mind – and, true, it was pretty hard to think with the fear spreading through his brain at the moment. “ _Clickers_.”

“What?” Grif asked, not being able to focus on anything else but the mental image of the flying terrors with their leathery wings of doom and sharp vampire teeth.

“You know,” Simmons hissed at him, eyes widened in panic. “The third stage of the infection. Blind infected who use _fucking_ _echolocation_ to find us and tear us apart!”

“So not bats?” Grif concluded, feeling a weight leave his chest. He still had nightmares about the time he’d been ordered to clear the flying animals from the school’s loft. “Whew.”

“No! Not _‘whew’_! Clickers are worse! Now it’s time to panic- wait, _no_. We don’t panic. We stay quiet and we leave.”

“So we are sure they’re not bats?”

“For fuck’s sake: yes!”

It was almost amazing how Simmons managed to yell while whispering.

The tension in his shoulders first seemed to disappear when they closed the door silently behind them. Grif, however, kept looking at the ceiling, waiting for the bats to come out of their hiding.

“It sounded far away,” Simmons muttered to himself. “So we’re probably safe.”

“That _‘probably’_ isn’t helping my mood.”

They walked further away from the door, creating some distance. Eventually, when they’d heard no moaning or clicking for more than a minute, Simmons dared to raise his voice just a notch again. “At least your aim isn’t that bad. I mean, you did alright before. You survived and you didn’t get bitten-“

“Want to scan me again?”

“No,” Simmons muttered, and a rose color suddenly appeared in his cheeks. “I just- want to know who taught you to shoot since you’re not _horrible_ -“

Grif shrugged. “All military schools suck. But they’re kinda strict about the whole turning orphans into soldiers project.”

“Oh,” Simmons said, and the way his brows were lifted made him look genuinely surprised. “It was that sorta school-“ When he caught Grif’s glare, he stuttered a little but quickly regained his voice, “I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with an orphanage! Dead parents are natural – wait, not like that but-“

“Sure. Who hasn’t lost a parent or two?” Grif snorted sarcastically. The office they’d just entered was in better shape than the one they’d fallen into at first. At least this place hadn’t been crushed by the ceiling.

While Simmons seemed to glance at the old computer monitors, once again, Grif found the actual treasure.

The snack vending machine was hidden in the corner of the room, yet somehow glinting in Grif’s vision, as if sunlight hit it.

“ _Sweet_ ,” he said, already licking his lips. In a matter of seconds, he was in front of it, making a mental note of all the different of brands he could choose between. And there was a lot to choose from – bags of chips, chocolate, even some soda cans.

Jackpot, indeed. Who cared about the old tech, or the glass decorations on the desks or the depressing family pictures.

In the middle of this nightmare trip, it seemed that he’d found a slice from a daydream.

While chewing on a chocolate and caramel treat, Grif filled his pockets with as many packages as possible.

“Are you going to eat all that?” Simmons asked him. He was standing a few desks away, looking at him with a dissatisfied frown.

“Do you know how much you can sell these for back inside the Zone?” Grif asked with his mouth full. He knew the answer to his question – a lot. The black market sometimes sold stuff from outside the walls. Mostly medicine, clothes and food, but sometimes collectables, like old tech, or snacks like these.

Grif had stared at snack bars at the stands before, trying to find a way to steal it so he didn’t have to lose any ration tickets. Though that sweet, sweet taste of chocolate had almost been worth it. But, sadly, you couldn't live on chocolate forever, and Kai always complained about being hungry.

Swallowing a bite of chocolate, Grif made sure to remember the taste. “Didn’t you want some nerdy souvenirs?” Grif reminded Simmons with a shrug. He reached inside the venting machine again, pulling out a can of old soda.

“Don’t-“ Simmons warned him but he was too late.

Grif opened the can with a loud _click_ followed by the satisfying hissing sound. He drank the entire thing in one gulp, while Simmons looked around nervously for Clickers.

“We have to be quiet,” he hissed at him, spreading out his arms to show the importance of his warning – and promptly knocked over the fancy glass statue.

Grif was pretty sure it was shaped like a puma, though it was shattered to pieces before he could truly tell.

They both froze.

And then the clicking could be heard.

They reacted instinctively, diving behind cover. It was first when Grif was behind a desk that he realized that Simmons wasn’t with him. He peeked over the edge just in time to see the two Clickers stumbling into the room.

Grif had heard of them but it didn’t quite prepare him for the sight. Their faces were… gone. Replaced by the fucking fungus. It’d kept growing, filling their eyes, but not stopping there, growing, growing, until it split the face in half. The head was all skewed at this point, and only the mouth was left somewhat untouched so that it could still eat.

But the rest was fungus plates, growing like dandelions in pavement cracks. The infection continued to be visible down their throats, turning the skin into a sickly grey color with flakes falling off. Their clothes had been turned into rags at this point, and Grif couldn’t even tell if they had been military or civilians.

The clicking noises grew louder as the two Clickers went each way, covering different areas of their room. They flailed their arms around blindly, ready to grab the victim they knew were in here, even if they couldn’t see.

Grif stepped backwards as quietly as possible, having noticed that one of them was coming in his direction.

The noise was horrible, like the bats accident all over again, and he knew that he had to get out, had to flee out of the room and-

The fire escape. He noticed the stairs through a broken window; the metal railing glinting in the morning light.

It wasn’t that far away, only a few desks further ahead, so Grif kept his head down and slowly kept moving forward.

Looking over his shoulder, he made sure to have a certain distance to the Clickers; he knew that if those hands brushed against him, they'd been tearing into him before he could try to escape.

His arm brushed against the cool glass, biting his lip when the skin was pressed against a sharp corner. He turned around to face the glass door, staying crouched to avoid any unnecessary sounds by opening the door. The lower half had already had its glass broken, and the space was big enough for Grif to step through if he was careful.

He looked up again to check that the Clickers weren’t too close.

But they were too busy roaming through the other end of the room, right where Simmons was crouched next to an office chair. Grif had forgotten all about the nerd until he noticed the red hair, barely visible as he was still wearing his stupid helmet.

Simmons wasn’t moving – just shaking more and more as the Clickers came closer.

Grif swore under his breath.

And then he noticed the empty can in his hand. He hadn’t dared to let go of it when the Clickers had entered the room, afraid that the noise would be enough to gain their attention. Now he hoped that was the case.

He straightened out his back, throwing the can as far and high as he could. It bounced off the wall in the opposite end of the room, hitting the floor with a _clang_.

Immediately, the Clickers froze, turning their misshaped heads towards the sound. With their whines and clicking growing louder, they rushed towards the area, movements jerky but quick.

Grif saw Simmons inching towards him, using the moment to get away. But refusing to waste more time, Grif crawled through the broken window, finding himself in the middle of the fire escape. The metal seemed to creak under his weight.

Simmons joined him a moment afterwards, as quiet and pale as a ghost. He’d hissed slightly when crawled to the other side, as he cut his thigh against the sharp glass.

But it didn’t seem to be deep as he quickly followed Grif downwards, the stairs heading towards the ground in a zigzag pattern.

Their boots finally hit stable concrete, and Simmons let out a sigh of relief so deep it was almost contagious – but Grif had more important things to do.

Grabbing Simmons by the wrist, he rushed forward, ignoring his teammate’s surprised noise of alarm. There was a bus at the other side of the street. Far from drivable, of course. The tires must have been destroyed when the bombs had hit, leaving it tilted, and it was overgrown with plants but Grif didn’t care.

The entrance door had been left open and he hurried inside, dragging Simmons with him.

“What the fuck?” Simmons asked when they were inside the buse, in the middle of the row seperating the seats.

Grif pulled the door close before answering. He couldn't find a way to lock it, and there were already cracks in the glass but it’d have to do. Besides, they were going to be quiet throughout the entire thing.

“Simmons,” he said. “We’re going to take a nap. Right now. Right here.”

“A nap? Right now? Right here?”

Simmons looked at the old cushions as if it’d leave him infected if he touched it. Like it was that big a deal. They only looked a bit more dirty than Grif’s couch, and he’d slept on that thing for years.

So he had no trouble finding a comfortable spot on the nearest seats, feeling the exhaustion seep into his bones the moment he let his feet rest. “Yes. We haven’t slept all night, Simmons. All night! That’s what the night is for! Instead, we spent in on _walking_. And _running_. For our lives. And you know what we spent yesterday on? Walking and running!”

“But,” Simmons said, stomping a foot, “we need to get back to the others!”

“Sure. But do you know how we get back to the wall, Simmons? By walking. And running. And I’m not doing any of these things anymore! Not before I take a nap.”

Simmons looked like he was about to argue but that stern expression crumbled seconds afterwards. Even he couldn’t deny the fact that tonight had left them more than tired. “Fine,” he said, finally settling on a seat after giving the cushion a few pats. “But we won’t sleep for long!”

Grif just hummed, having already rested his head the window. “Here,” he said, throwing a snack bar over the seat for Simmons to grab. He didn’t receive a reply, but Grif knew that his teammate had to be hungry as well.

The cool touch of the glass against his cheek was calming. It reminded him of before the outbreak. He’d only been five, but he remembered sleeping in the bus whenever their mother had been forced to bring them to the city. Of course the bus had been moving back then, unlike now.

He fell asleep within seconds. The bus would provide them shelter for now, and as long as they kept still, there was little chance of the infected finding them. There was no reason to go back to the wall before taking this opportunity to gain strength.

He’d be ready to sleep for as long as he wanted to. Sure, he’d expected Simmons to wake up before him and shake him awake. Surely the guy wouldn’t just leave him behind at this point.

But Simmons wasn’t the one to wake up him.

“Goddamnit,” Grif said, hours later, when he opened his eyes to see a gun pointed straight at his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for late update! Fandom events kept me busy, and I have all my other fics to work on, and oh well. We're finally getting a little bit deeper into the actual plot. Just a little bit.  
> Really enjoying s16 so far, great inspiration!


	6. The Smugglers

Grif wouldn’t exactly call his own reaction to the gun in his face dignified. His squeal was just a bit too nervous to sound manly.

But still – he did better than Simmons. At the sound of the commotion, the nerd jumped from his seat.

Only to forget to duck his head, resulting in his forehead smacking against the roof of the bus with a painful-sounding _thud_. The helmet that had been lying in his lap fell as he stood up. Simmons landed right next to it as he crumpled to the floor.

“What the fuck?” one of the newcomers said. He wasn’t holding a gun, and because of that he was Grif’s favorite so far.

But he barely dared to take at look at him since the _gun_ filling his entire vision kind of stole his attention. It was an eyecatcher like that.

The man holding the gun (arm muscles –  check/ scary demeanor – check / plenty of scars – check) had his eyes set on Grif, and they followed him whenever he dared to inch backwards.

“What the fuck?” Grif had to ask. The lack of armor made it clear that that they weren’t soldiers, so there went Simmons’ hope of being rescued.

But their rucksacks and weapons indicated they were either survivors trying to make their way inside the Quarantine Zone or smugglers returning from their _‘business’_ trip behind the walls.

His partner – a dark skinned man with a too smug smile on his face – kicked Simmons’ leg. Not enough to hurt him, just to see if he stirred. Which he didn’t. “I told you the gun would be overdramatic.”

“They ambushed us,” the blond-haired one said, moving his eyes away from Grif though his grip on his gun didn’t budge.

Even though he knew he hadn’t been spoken to, Grif couldn’t help but add a comment to the conversation. “We were _sleeping_ ,” he spat, slowly raising his hands to show he wasn’t going to try anything. You could always get away with an amount of snark as long as you didn’t seem like you were going to attack. Grif knew this, he’d lived surrounded by asshole guards long enough to learn it. “What were we gonna do- sleep rob you?”

His partner stepped closer, looking at Grif as he said, “What he meant is – you accidently startled him, and his nerves really don’t like that. Just be happy that he didn’t pull the trigger when you made him jump.”

“He didn’t _startle_ me,” the apparently paranoid partner said with an offended huff. “I just want to know why two FEDRA soldiers have preoccupied our hideout.”

“Hey, uhm, we just collapsed in the first burned out bus we saw. Sorry for being an inconvenience.” He tried to stretch out his leg, letting the tip of his shoe brush against Simmons’ shoulder. A moment later the unconscious man began to groan quietly.

“C’mon,” Grif said, staring at the guy holding him at gunpoint. “You wouldn’t shoot two helpless idiots, would you? Because that would make you an asshole.”

“Even if we have no reasons to kill you – you should have your reasons to kill us.” He tilted his gun towards his badge, still clinging to his bloodstained vest.

“Dude, I’m a draftee. I just wanna be inside the walls again.”

Smug-face set his brown eyes on him, expression softening when he frowned. “Haven’t I-“

“Urgh,” Simmons said as he pushed himself upwards by his palm, his free hand pressed against his forehead. “What happened-“ Grasping his seat, he slowly pulled himself back up – until he found himself staring into the face of a stranger.

Simmons jumped again, the same painful _thud_ could be heard, and he fell back at his seat, hands pressed against the sore spot on the top of his head. He cursed loudly.

“Seriously?” Smug-Face stared at him, obviously more amused than alarmed.

“Like I said,” Grif snorted, “we really aren’t a threat to you guys.”

“I can see that,” the guy with the gun said but then lowered it just a little, letting it point at Grif’s torso instead of his face. It didn’t help the ‘pull-the-trigger-and-you’re-dead’ threat, but it did make it easier to talk. “Are you bitten?” he asked, eyes still hard.

Grif looked down at his own bloodstained shirt. “No. Hey, I know what it looks like, but consider the option that we might just have beaten the shit out of some infected.”

“I thought you just said you two were losers,” Smug-Face reminded him, living up to his name.

Grif resisted the urge to flip him off, but only because of the gun in the room. Instead he said, “Before you can use it as a bad reason to shoot us, let me point out that my friend here has a scanner. If you want to make sure.”

Simmons was still cradling his head, but he looked up with narrowed eyes as he realized Grif was referring to him. With all the attention suddenly being aimed at him, he gulped, a stutter in his voice as he said, “S-sure. He’s telling the truth, actually. Just let me-“

He fumbled with the little machine, almost dropping it twice before he managed to press it against his own neck. “Here,” he said, after it beeped, showing the screen to the strangers to prove that he was clean.

When they set their eyes on Grif, he gave the scanner to the heavyset man, allowing him to repeat the procedure. When Grif’s scan had proven negative as well, he snorted, “So how do we know that _you’re_ not bitten?”

“Because if that was the case, we are the ones smart enough to put a bullet through our heads,” Guy-with-Gun said without even flinching.

It was hard to argue against that.

“Are you…” Simmons gulped. “Are you trying to rob us?”

Smug-Face turned towards him. “Depends. Got anything good? Ooh, any food? I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

Simmons glared at Grif, and soon the others followed his stare, and eventually he had no choice but to empty his pockets with a sigh. “ _Fine_. Here.” He threw one snack back at them. Then another.

Then another.

And another.

“Holy shit, dude, how much stuff do you got?” Smug-Face looked widely impressed (as he should be) as he shoved the snacks into his backpack. “Are you sure you’re not a smuggler?”

“You’re the smugglers,” Simmons said, eyes flickering up at them. It didn’t sound like an accusation, more like a quiet statement. He was frowning.

Guy-with-Gun shifted the weight on his feet, turning to face the nerd, and so Grif had to open his mouth to get back his attention.

Because Simmons would clearly mess this up if Grif didn’t hold him back. Clearly.

“We say that as a good thing!” he added to the conversation, keeping his voice loud.

“Really?”

Grif nodded. “Because we are going to pay you for getting us back inside the Zone.”

“We are?” Simmons said. His eyes were widened. When Grif nodded, he bit some skin off his lip before repeating his words, “We are.” He tried to sound sure this time.

“Dude, how are you gonna pay us? We just robbed you.” Smug-Face crossed his arms, and then he tilted his head, suddenly staring at Grif with newfound curiosity. “Wait, don’t I know you?”

“I don’t know?” Grif frowned, narrowing his eyes as he stared back at the stranger. Maybe he’d heard that voice before, though he couldn’t quite place it…

“You’re from Area 5, right?”

“So?”

Smug-Face snapped his fingers. “You’re Kai’s brother!”

“Uhm, how the fuck do you know my sister?!”

“Like everyone else know your sister. Bow-chicka-bow-wow.”

It probably wasn’t the smartest idea to lunge at the guy while his partner was pointing a gun at him, but this wasn’t the first time Grif had been stupid.

Though his efforts were cut short as the blond mercenary reached out to shove him back in his seat with his palm. “Don’t,” he warned him coldly.

“Woah, I didn’t mean it like that,” Smug-Face said, holding out his hands. “I met her at a party. ‘cause she’s like at _every_ party.”

Grif didn’t even bother to sigh. He’d always known that Kai enjoyed sneaking off to the illegal gatherings around the slum, even if he told her _over and over_ just to stay home before she ended up pregnant or killed or worse. Some months ago an asshole had given her some pills for free to ‘lighten the mood’, and when she’d stumbled home it’d taken him hours to convince her that the colors she was seeing weren’t real.

She wasn’t even eighteen yet. She would be in a few years, though, but he preferred not to think about that. He had enough troubles keeping him safe right now, and that wouldn’t change when the military would try to get their hands on her.

Smug-Face gestured for his partner to holster his gun. “We can’t just shoot them now. Not when I’m trying to score his sister. Dead brothers don’t work as a good pick up line. Unless you go for the comforting-arm-around-the-shoulder-and-squeeze style.”

“But you can help us back to the Zone?” Simmons suddenly said, entering the conversation. He cleared his throat as they all turned to stare at him.

“I don’t know,” the blond guy said. His eyes were still narrowed.

“You’re going back to the Wall no matter what,” Grif pointed out. “We could just stalk you from a distance and find our way back. At least with a deal, you get paid.”

“Yeah, but with what?” Smug-Face asked.

And then their eyes fell on the helmet on the floor.

There were a few bloodstains on the visor, but otherwise it was as shiny as ever.

“You can have that thing,” Grif promised them.

Simmons let out a small noise of protest but didn’t say any words.

“Alright,” Smug-Face said. “But we’re also keeping the snack bars.”

“ _And_ ,” his partner added, “if you try to alert your military friends, the deal is nulled. Understood?”

Grif wasn’t sure if the guy was trying to put emphasis on the fact that his fingers reached down to pat his gun, but that was all he could focus on. He tried not to gulp. “Yeah… Don’t worry about that. The military can go fuck themselves for all I care. Fucking drafting notice…”

That seemed to calm them down, just a little. “Well,” Smug-Face said, nodding towards the helmet. “Guess we’re keeping that thing. But you can carry it for now. Until we reach the wall.”

“Thanks,” Simmons muttered dryly, slowly pulling it towards himself.

“So you’re Grif,” Smug-Face said, nodding at him. “Like your sister.”

He nodded.

The smuggler turned his thumb towards his own worn shirt. It was hard to recognize the aqua color beneath the dirt. “Tucker. This is Wash. Short for Washington.”

“Like the state?” Grif snorted. “Must be serious to use codename.”

The guy didn’t sense the irony. “You could say that,” he said, voice so cold that Grif made a mental note never to ask into that.

There was one person left to be introduced. “I’m Simmons,” the nerd muttered quietly.

“Simmons?” Wash repeated the name, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah…” Putting his helmet back on, Simmons hid his eyes behind his visor. “So, are we leaving now?”

“Nope,” Tucker said, throwing himself onto one of the empty seats. He crossed his legs as he made himself comfortable. “That’s the whole reason why we came here. We’re first moving through the wasteland when it’s dark. Lowers the risk of getting seen, and I hate getting shot at.”

“Me too,” Grif said. He eyed this Washington as he scooted back in his seat to get comfortable. “Man, does this mean we get to nap again? _Sweet_.”

“But you just took a nap,” Simmons protested, glaring at him.

“And now the smugglers say it’s time to nap again. I’m not arguing against the professionals, Simmons.”

“ _We_ are not going anywhere,” Wash said as he hesitantly settled on the seats next to Tucker. “You’re free to leave if you want to try getting there on your own.”

Yeah, no one really believed that was happening.

Grif had already rested his cheek against the window again when he opened his eyes to see Simmons suddenly drop into the seat next to him. The nerd’s eyes were glued to the smugglers who were resting in the other end of the bus, discussing something too quietly for them to hear.

Grif was too tired to be worried. Sure, there was a chance they might just grow too tired of them or decide that soldiers (as shitty as the might be) couldn’t be trusted, and shoot them dead before they could react.

But smugglers were willing to do _anything_ for a price. And they were already heading back to the Wall. This was just a bonus for them.

Of course Grif knew that they could just kill them and loot them. He supposed he owed Kai a mental thank you for at least keeping some decency in one of the guys.

Or maybe the smugglers were just going along with this because they pitied them. Grif wasn’t sure what he felt about that option. But at least it kept them alive.

“Grif,” Simmons whispered to him. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“You mean, hire professional bodyguards to keep infected off our back? Yeah, I think it’s a pretty good idea.” He knew they’d only survived so far because of luck. He hadn’t exactly been looking forward to crossing the wasteland again.

And it wasn’t just because of the infected. There was another danger, one Simmons would never think of.

“But… we don’t know them,” Simmons pointed out. “And they’re… _smugglers_.”

“Right. _Professionals_. I’m not complaining.”

“But what if… What if they’re the guys who killed Hammer and Jones?”

Only one way to find out. Grif raised his voice. “By the way, did you by any chance kill two soldiers near the Wall some weeks ago?”

“Oh, we did that,” Wash replied with no hesitation. “But to our defense, they shot first. Is that a problem?”

The challenged was clear in his voice. “Nope. Guys were assholes.”

“Good.”

Well, as long as they didn’t shoot at them, they should be fine.

Grif pretended not to hear Simmons’ worried squeak as he relaxed in his seat again. He wasn’t going to waste this good excuse to rest.

Before he closed his eyes, he caught a glimpse of Simmons’ pale reflection in the dirty window.

* * *

Simmons seemed to grow more comfortable with the plan the closer they got to the wall.

The smugglers had truly impressed him on their way out of the abandoned city, when a faint clicking had echoed in the distance, and Simmons and Grif had ducked out of pure instinct.

“Take cover,” Wash had warned them while Tucker had picked up a nearby brick from the ground.

He adjusted the brick in his hand before throwing it as far as he could towards the other end of the alley. The loud sound of glass breaking made it clear that he’d hit a window.

More noise followed after that, moaning and groaning and hissing as nearby infected were drawn to the scene, gaining their attention for the next couple of minutes.

“C’mon.” Wash gestured for them to follow as they slowly made their way towards the edge of the city, where the concrete broke and they could jump down to soil of the wasteland below.

Grif and Simmons shared a glance before following them.

“You know, I think sold you a porno magazine once,” Tucker said, glancing at him.

It took a second before Grif realized he wasn’t trying to blackmail him or something. He just sounded amused. And when Grif thought about it – he did have a point. “Yeah, and you ripped me off.”

“Hey, I checked out the pictures before putting a tag on it – I know it was worth it.”

“I should just have spent my tickets on Sammie’s lunch special instead.” He sighed, trying to ignore how his stomach was rumbling. “I get hungry just thinking about it.”

“So,” Simmons said, clearing his throat as he tried to join the conversation. They both looked at him. “You often come in Area 5?”

“We can only sell our wares in the slum, so yeah. _Why_?”

“It’s just… Are you sure you’ve never been in Area 1 before-“

“What happened to the communication tower?”

The group came to a halt as Wash froze, tilting his head backwards the watch the silhouette of the wall, illuminated by the moon.

The smoke had stopped rising since the accident, but the damage could still be seen from here.

Simmons barely had to explain. “The Fireflies bombed it,” he muttered darkly. “It’s one of the reasons why we got stuck out here.”

“They’re becoming more aggressive,” Wash noted dully as the group began to move forward again.

Grif looked up at the broken guard tower in the distance. “Yeah. So is the military.”

“Another great reason to escape the Zone every now and then,” Tucker said with a shrug before jumping down into the ditch before them.

Wash landed next to him, and Grif hesitated for a moment before sliding down through the mud.

And of course Simmons hesitated on the edge.

“C’mon.” Grif crossed his arms. “You have nothing to worry about. Mud’s easier to get off than bloodstains.”

“Really?” Simmons asked, apparently oblivious to his dry tone.

“Who gives a shit – just hurry up before they decide to leave you behind. You can’t argue against the professionals, you know.”

“ _Fine_ ,” he squeaked. “Just- lemme-“ He fumbled with his vest for a moment, trying to-

“ _Do not_ turn on your flashlight,” Wash warned him, spinning around to point his gun at him.

Simmons let out a yelp, raising his hands again. “But-“

“We’re in the wasteland, dude. Your flashlight is the fastest way to get spotted by the military, and they have _nasty_ trigger finger.”

“No kidding,” Grif snorted. “Officer Miller tried to shoot me twice on my first day.”

“But,” Simmons said again, twisting his neck as he tried to look at all of them at once. “We _want_ to be spotted by the military. We want to get back to them. Remember?”

He was glaring at Grif now, who had to lower his head to avoid his stare. Man, Simmons could be stupid at times.

Wash cocked his gun again. “Well, _we_ want to get back to the Wall without getting executed for violating their rules.” The bags beneath his eyes were visible to them all, even in the dark. Grif doubted he’d had a good nap when they’d rested in the bus. But the guy had claimed he’d been keeping an eye on them while Tucker slept.

Simmons still held up his hands as he swallowed loud enough for the others to hear. “I- I get that. But-“

“Just follow them to the Wall,” Grif suggested. “Isn’t that good enough for you?”

Simmons stared at him before shutting his mouth so quickly that his jaw clicked.

No one said anything for the rest of the journey, except the occasional orders to keep their head low or stay out of the searchlight.

The military was apparently doing well enough without them, and some new poor souls had been put in charge of the night patrol, becoming a problem for them to avoid.

But it obviously wasn’t the first time the smugglers had travelled through the wasteland. They seemed to know the patrols’ routes by memory, as they easily avoided getting in their path, using the various ditches and tunnels and ruins to their advantage. They stopped every now and then to look for any trace of infected, avoiding areas with too many signs of danger.

Grif and Simmons followed them quietly, trying to move as fast as they could as well as bite back the curse words when they stumbled over obstacles in the darkness.

“Alright,” Wash suddenly called over his shoulder. “A few more minutes and we’ve reached the Wall.”

It was hard not to smile, knowing they’d actually made it this far. Grif doubted Kai would even believe his story when he came home. And sure – maybe he’d thought himself pretty doomed back in the skyscraper as well.

But now they were _so close_.

“Then how do we get under it? ...or over it, if that's the plan,” Grif asked them, moving forward to get closer to the pair.

Tucker shrugged. “There’s a tunnel nearby. As long as the assholes keep their distance, we can use it.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Wash noted. He’d stepped onto an abandoned car to peek over the edge of the ditch. “Seems like they are gathering at the Eastern entrance.”

They all came to stand next to him, following his glance to see the silhouettes of soldiers in the distance, flashlights giving away their position, a few jeeps near them.

“It’s probably 5am,” Simmons muttered, looking at how the sky was beginning to get a faint trace of the color red. “That's when Officer Miller always gather the soldiers to assign patrols.”

He was right. Grif felt a shiver down his back as he remembered the rough awakenings to early in the morning.

“Good,” Wah said, jumping down from the roof of the car. “Then they won’t notice us move.”

Before he could move too far away, Grif shoved his elbow into Tucker’s side. “Hey, does being a smuggler pay well?”

“Depends. You gotta get the good stuff.”

“C’mon. People are so desperate, they’d buy everything.”

“Fine. You gotta get _stuff_. And that’s the hardest part.”

“Meh,” Grif said, shrugging. “I’ll figure it out.”

Tucker raised a dark eyebrow, crossing his arms as he tried to stare him down. “What – think you can join us? Because this is a closed party. Unless your sister is asking, of course.”

“Well, they’ve probably already written me off as dead. And once I get back inside the Wall, I can’t exactly tell them I hired you guys to get me back in. So that means I’ll be living outside the system.”

He felt like maybe it should worry him more than it did. Leave some fear inside of him instead of excitement. But-

He was just happy to be alive, actually. And, if the system thought him dead, that meant no more drafting notices. No more warnings to find a shitty job ASAP or they’d take his property. And Kai would even get some compensation for his tragic death.

He’d have to find a job eventually, of course. An illegal one this time. Good thing he already lived in the slum. A lot of illegal activities were always happening, and they’d need some extra hands somewhere.

His death could change his life for the better-

“But you don’t have to do that!” Simmons said, taking a step towards him. “The others are right there. We can just walk up to them and say we made it all the way back by ourselves.”

“ _Right_ ,” Tucker snorted. “Walk up to the soldiers. That sounds like a great idea.”

“Because it is!” Simmons argued, actually crossing his arms as he faced the smuggler. “We’re not doing anything illegal! You are!” When Wash moved behind Tucker, he quickly added with a shrill, nervous voice, “We won’t report you, of course! You help us and- and now we’re at the Wall! Like you promised. Here.”

He shoved his helmet into Tucker’s hands before grabbing Grif’s wrist, trying to drag him towards the car. “C’mon, Grif. Let’s-“

“Simmons, your plan sucks.”

“No, it doesn’t!”

“Yes, it does.”

“ _How_?! This was the plan all along!”

“Simmons, they’re gonna shoot you on sight.”

The nerd’s mouth fell open. Grif let him have the time to process that warning, and it took a couple of seconds before Simmons began to stutter again. “Why the f-fuck would they do that? We’re their teammates!”

“Sure. Their teammates who’re presumed dead. Full offense – no one think we’d make it this far.”

“Well, we’ll just blow their mind when they see us. Come on!”

But Grif didn’t move. “And if they don’t think us dead, they’ll think we’re infected.”

“But we’re not!” Simmons protested. Being on top of the car, he was able to glare down at him, his hands turning into fists as he met his stare. “And we can prove it! So why do you have to make this a problem-“

“The military won’t ask you if you’re infected. If they see you in the wasteland, they’ll just shoot you.”

Watching Simmons argue against pure facts should be fun.

But it wasn’t.

The nerd just kept opening and closing his mouth like a fish, glaring at him through narrowed eyes. “We’re a part of the military, Grif! Whether you like it or not.”

“Well, I don’t like it. And I’m not going up against their trigger-fingers. C’mon. You know they only thought us as their meatshields, right?”

Judging from Simmons’ expression, he probably didn’t know that.

“We’re leaving now,” Wash informed them, raising his voice enough to get their attention. “If you want to come along, I suggest you hurry up.”

Grif turned his head to look at Simmons, noticing the way he was biting his lip. “I’m coming with them,” he let him know, taking a step away from the car.

“Well, _I_ won’t be spending the rest of my life as a _criminal_ in Area 5.”

He met Simmons’ glare. The nerd didn’t blink.

And finally, Grif shrugged. “Your choice. I’m just saying, going up there is a _really_ bad idea.”

“Just because you’re too lazy and- and _ungrateful_ to give a shit about the people keeping you _safe_ , it doesn’t mean I don’t have to,” Simmons told him dryly.

Grif didn’t say anything to that.

Simmons kept staring at him.

One of the smugglers coughed awkwardly in the background.

“Do what you want,” Grif told Simmons. “It’s not my problem.”

“You’re right about that,” Simmons said. “It’s the only thing you’re right about.”

“Good luck.” Grif made sure to keep his tone dry.

And then Simmons extended his hand, stiff and awkwardly, like when Grif had been forced to be polite to strangers back in the Military School, shaking their hands and calling them sir.

“Goodbye,” Simmons said, staring at Grif until he gave in and accepted the gloved hand.

Grif shook it. “If you actually make it, be sure to give me a glorious death.”

“I’ll tell them you died screaming as the infected ate you,” Simmons let him know as he pulled his hand back.

“At least you’re keeping it believable.”

Grif watched silently as Simmons climbed onto the edge, dragging himself upwards with shaking arms.

But he actually made it, and he was stupid enough to try to brush the dirt off his knees as he stood up.

He looked down at them.

And then he walked away.

“I wanna stay behind and see how this plays out,” Tucker told his partner before jumping on the roof off the car. Wash sighed but didn’t try to walk him out of it.

Silently, Grif climbed the vehicle to stand next to the smuggler, and they’d gained just enough height to peek over the edge.

They could watch Simmons walk slowly towards the group in the distance, back straight, hands raised into to the air to show that he was unarmed.

The searchlight landed on him, and Grif held his breath.

It was a small comfort that without his helmet, Simmons’ red hair at least gave him a chance to be properly recognized.

Maybe there were some people in the Zone that the military thought worthy of being alive.

Grif just wasn’t one of them.

* * *

“It’s just me,” Simmons said, trying to keep his voice from breaking. It didn’t sound like he was succeeding.

The bright light hurt his eyes, and he squinted, moving his hand slightly in the hope of shielding his face. He couldn’t see the group of soldiers he knew were ahead of him, probably pointing at him with their rifles, finger on the trigger…

But he was still wearing his uniform. He was one of them.

And he wasn’t infected.

That was why the military was here. To protect the civilians from the infection.

And Simmons was proud to be a part of that. He was-

“It’s me,” he said again, yelling at the light. “Richard Simmons. _Simmons_. Please don’t shoot. I’m not infected.”

“Simmons,” a voice said.

He closed his eyes, feeling the light against his eyelids. “Yeah,” he said, not resisting as rough hands forced him down on his knees. “Yeah, it’s me.”

A scanner was pressed against his neck. He recognized its cold touch.

“He’s clean,” someone announced.

Hands brought him back on his feet, and Simmons tried to keep his knees from shaking.

The searchlight was finally moved, and the darkness was a relief to his face. He was finally able to open his eyes, and he found himself staring at Officer Miller.

“Simmons,” he said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Good to have you back. I have to admit, I was about to inform your father of your passing.”

“I’m- I’m not that easy to kill, sir,” Simmons said, trying to smile. He looked over his shoulder, towards the ditch he’d escaped from, and for a moment he thought he could see the faint silhouette of Grif peeking over the edge.

“You’re tougher than you look. And you’re the least tough-looking soldier I’ve ever met.”

“Thank you, sir,” Simmons said as the group began to move forward, back towards the entrance. He looked forward to being behind the tall, safe wall once more.

Though he supposed it was only a matter of time before he’d be sent out here again.

“What about your partner? What was his name? Biff? Something like that.”

“Grif,” Simmons corrected him. As they were about to step into the elevator, he couldn’t help but turn his head again. But this time, as he looked towards the ditch, Grif was gone.

Officer Miller was staring at him, awaiting an answer.

Simmons straightened out his back, letting out a shaky laugh. “Yeah, he’s totally dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand end of arc one. But don't worry, we still have a lot of story left. I allowed this change of pov to give hand the spotlight to Simmons for what will come next.  
> The next chapter will be a bit different, as it will work as a transition between arcs and will help flesh out the characters' backstories. You'll see.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	7. Day 0

Dexter knew he was supposed to be sleeping. It was hours past his bedtime – which rarely counted as a rule since mom never bothered to scold him if he broke it. As long as he stayed quiet.

Tonight it wasn’t even a big problem. Mom had left, meaning he could do whatever he wanted tonight. Kai had fallen asleep but if he woke her up she’d cry, and he didn’t want that. So instead he snuggled closer against the blankets, making sure that his sound was muted for the outside world around the couch.

He had just emptied his bag of chips and the cartoon had reached its climax (where the hero brought out his giant sword and a ball of light raced towards the enemy) when the screen became black.

There was thunder in the distance.

Reaching forward to grab the remote, he frowned as he continued to press the _start_ button with no success. He crawled out of the couch with a sigh, hoping that they’d have some spare batteries in one of the drawers.

When he walked past the window he noticed that it wasn’t raining. This, of course, confused him and he pressed his face against the dirty glass, trying to spot the street beneath their apartment.

It was a summer evening, and despite it being midnight, he could still make out people huddled together in groups, talking and pointing. He followed some of their fingers to watch the big cloud of smoke in the horizon.

That was strange. The thunder – which apparently wasn’t thunder – had been so loud he’d been sure the apartment had shaken. Still, it hadn’t been loud enough to wake up Kai.

Walking quietly through the small apartment, staying on his toes to avoid any more noises, he made his way to Kai’s crib and peaked over the edge. The small girl had the ability to sleep through almost everything. Just like Dexter.

When he was sure his little sister wouldn’t wake up crying any time soon, he snuck back to his nest of blankets. He comforted himself with the remaining snacks in the chips bag, but eventually those ran out and the noises from the streets grew too loud to ignore.

It sounded like one of his super hero movies, right when the villain was about to win and the world was covered in chaos. Dexter could hear people screaming, cars crashing, things exploding, gunshots.

When he smelled smoke he covered his head under the blanket again.

Something was wrong.

Mom wasn’t here right now. She’d gone off to see her new friend. Dexter didn’t know his name yet because he hadn’t met him.

But mom never went too far away. If something was wrong, she’d come for them.

So when the door was slammed open and mom stormed inside, Dexter knew things were bad.

“What’s going on?” he asked when mom had stepped inside their living room. A part of him wanted to embrace her, but another part of him feared her ghostly pale expression and the way her mascara was smudged.

Dexter wondered if one of her boyfriends had become mad again, but even that explanation wouldn’t include all the chaos outside.

“They’re building a shelter at the city border,” she explained quickly but Dexter didn’t understand. “They are letting in women with children as a first priority.”

Dexter thought about that and became even more confused. Maybe it was a flood? Mom had often complained about how the apartment leaked raindrops from the ceiling. Surely it couldn’t stand a real water disaster.

Mom disappeared into the bedroom and came out carrying Kai. “Put on your jacket,” she told him. “I’m leaving now.”

Without tying his laces, Dexter put his feet in his shoes and rushed out of their home when mom was already disappearing down the worn stairs with Kai in her arms.

When he reached the street, he froze.

Dexter hadn’t seen a corpse before. He’d seen people fight, sometimes even with knives involved, but no one had died. But the guy some meters away from him was dead. He was hanging out of the windshield of his crashed car. There was something else inside the car. Persons. Two of them. One of them limp, like the dead guy, but the other person was pulling at the limp lady, blood all over their face-

Mom was running down the street, so Dexter turned around and followed her. Kai was crying now, and so was everyone else running alongside them. Some were screaming, too.

Dexter bit down on his lip so he couldn’t cry. “Mom!” he called out when she came too far away after he stumbled in his shoe laces. “Mom! Kai!”

Something fell against his back and Dexter tripped, grunting as he slammed his chin and palms against the concrete. He tried to turn around –

And screamed when he saw a man biting into another stranger’s throat. The poor guy had been close enough to Dexter for him to be covered in blood when the attack happened. He yelped, crawling backwards as he tried to tear his eyes away from the fatal wound.

Instead he stared at the attacker. He almost looked like one of mom’s boyfriends – broad shoulders, nice shirt, a watch on his arm. But now his clothes were all bloodied and he was snarling, lips pulled back to show off his teeth, and there was a mad look on his yellow eyes that scared Dexter to his core.

The man kept biting and clawing, and the red was spreading all over the concrete, staining Dexter’s shoes. He closed his eyes for a moment, disgusted, but he could still hear the noises: flesh being torn, gulping sounds, moaning and gasping.

And Dexter realized the moaning didn’t come from the guy with his throat torn open. He was dead. The pained noises came from the attacker himself-

“Dex!”

“Mom!” he yelled back, pushing himself upwards by the bloody palms to follow the voice. He spotted her further down the road, next to a wrecked car. The fire from the engine slowed her down, forcing her to back away to turn another corner instead.

It gave him the time to catch up with him. Kai was sobbing by this point, looking over mom’s shoulder to stare at him tearfully.

But everyone was crying now.

“Close your eyes, Kai,” mom told her as they ran. Dexter wasn’t even sure where they were heading. Just following everyone else in the city, it seemed. There were so many people in the streets, almost like the carnival, except the mood was very, very different.

Kai did as she was told, whimpering.

Dexter kept his eyes open. He saw the wreckages in the street, the burning cars, people snarling and jumping at other people, biting, tearing out chunks of flesh. He saw people dying, bleeding out, screaming. Those who weren’t dying were running with them, yelling for help, for their family to run faster, asking what was happening.

Dexter didn’t know the answer to that.

When the gunshots happened, people screamed louder.

He didn’t recognize the officer at first. He was too distracted by the gas mask, covering their entire face. “Cops?” Dexter whispered hopefully. Kai was sniffling.

He kept firing the gun.

People fell behind Dexter. Some were begging for help, some were just snarling, moaning, reaching for a victim.

Then the bullets stopped.

“Follow me to the triage,” the cop yelled at them. “You’re all under quarantine. Follow orders carefully.”

Dexter moved to stand next to mom, reaching for her hand, but her arms were full as she held onto Kai. He stayed close to her as they moved forward, a small group of people who’d survived the chaos in the streets and now had to march to the edge of the city to the big building that Dexter recognized as the train station.

It had been barricaded, filled with fences and armed guards, and to enter the building they had to be allowed entrance by the soldier in the doorway, holding a datapad in his hand. There was a gun strapped to his thigh. Dexter kept staring at it.

“I have children!” mom yelled, pushing their way through the nervous crowd to get closer to him. “Two children!”

“How old?” he asked her.

“Two,” she told him, showing him Kai. “And six.”

She nodded towards Dexter who looked up at the soldier with big eyes.

“Your names?”

“Mona Grif,” she said. “Kaikaina and Dexter Grif.”

They were pushed through a barred gate, separating them from the crying people outside, yelling to be let in.

But even inside, people were still crying.

They were led to a separated corner by a man in a strange science-suit that covered his entire body. Dexter remembered the word ‘quarantine’ and gulped as he looked down at his own limbs. He didn't feel sick. Only exhausted and nauseous but he knew that could be blamed on the running. There were many people in the room, some of them talking, others sobbing.

As the door was locked behind them, mom shoved Kai into his arms. “Take care of her,” she said, brushing her dark hair behind her shoulders before she turned away to talk to an armed guard near the door. Dexter watched how she leaned forward on her toes, like she did when she was talking to her boyfriends.

Then he turned his head away, maneuvering Kai to sit against his back. She was still crying softly, muttering his name into his hair. “Dexy…”

“It’s alright, Kai,” he said, looking around the room to see other frightened faces. There were some kids in the corner, but he decided not to talk with them. He’d stay here with Kai instead until mom was done with whatever she was doing.

“It’s like… a thunderstorm,” Dexter explained to his sister. “I think. You don’t like those. So we get inside. Like now. We just have to stay inside. And wait! Like with the storms. They go away, Kai. This will go away too. By morning. Probably! We just have to stay here until it’s over…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So between these intermission chapters between arcs will be a little shorter than the usual standard, and will feature a look into a random day between the present and from the day the outbreak began. It will change from a character every time, meaning we just had the Grif's backstories! We'll see someone else in the next intermission as we explore both characters and the world building.
> 
> This chapter was very much inspired by the prologue for the game since it's one of my fave scenes.


	8. The Job

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a sorta disturbing execution scene in the beginning of the chapter.

“Hands on your head.”

“Don’t move or I’ll shoot.”

“Keep still.”

The scanner beeped loudly, dooming him.

One of the soldiers tsk’ed.

“We got an infected.”

“No! _Please_!”

“Simmons.”

“Please, please. It’s a mistake, I’m not- I’m not infected!”

“Put him down.” His officer snapped his head towards him, eyes narrowed as he hissed, “Simmons!”

He almost lost his grip on the syringe. It felt so heavy in his hand as he looked down at the crying man. Simmons gulped. “I… Uh… I-“

The other soldiers had forced the pair to their knees, but they were both looking at Simmons. At gunpoint, they didn’t dare to do anything, but Simmons could see the fear in their eyes.

He wished they hadn’t broken the law.

If they’d just followed the rules, it’d be safer for the entire Zone. And for them as well. That was why the rules existed.

But they were presumed smugglers, having roamed in closed off buildings, and as a result, one of them had been infected. By the spores, Simmons assumed, since he couldn’t find any trace of a bite on the man’s body.

They had to deal with this, of course. If this was left unsupervised, the infected would turn in less than two days, probably bite more people, either kill or spread the disease, and suddenly the Quarantine Zone would be just as infected as the outside world.

They had to do this.

But still…

Simmons looked at the syringe he was holding. His hand was shaking.

“Please! It’s wrong, it has to be wrong. Please, I’m begging you- _No_!”

Simmons was still staring at the smuggler when the syringe was suddenly yanked out of his hand by Phil. His teammate was the one who kneeled next to the smuggler, held down by the soldiers in hazmat suits, and injected the substance into his neck.

The other smuggler had to be held back by Officer Gain.  “You fuckers! You-“ A sharp cry left his mouth as he was hit across the temple by a pistol.

On the ground, the infected smuggler was going into convulsions. Simmons watched as his eyes rolled back, only showing white.

After a few seconds, his hand twitched weakly.

Then Phil declared him dead.

Officer Gain nodded towards the smuggler who was still alive, sobbing loudly at the sight of his deceased friend. “Take him to the brig for further investigation. And get this scene cleaned up.” As the others soldiers began to work, he gave Simmons a light shove to gain his attention and stop him from moving away. “Simmons, I told you, you can’t afford to mess up this job.”

“I- I know, sir,” Simmons stuttered, trying to keep his eyes on Officer Gain and not the body on the ground.

There was foam around the smuggler’s mouth.

Gain’s brows were furrowed in annoyance. “If you know that then _why don’t you follow orders_?!”

Simmons still felt sick from the thought of plunging the needle into a vein. It just reminded him of the dog he’d had as a kid, before the outbreak, that his father had put down after it made a mess in the living room.

He tried to lift his chin. “I- I don’t know, sir. Social anxiety, I don’t know. Maybe? I’m sorry, sir.”

“You should save your apologies for your father.”

The officer turned around on his heel, ready to leave the grim scene behind.

Simmons felt the color leave his face at the mention of his father and he hurried after Gain. “Wait, do we really have to tell him-“

He stumbled over the corpse, first regaining his balance when the officer had already left the street.

His vision was going slightly fuzzy in the corners as he lowered his head to stare at the dead smuggler.

His stomach jumped – and not just due to the thought of his father being told he’d failed another job.

“Are you going to puke, Simmons?” Phil asked him as he walked past the body, not giving it a second glance.

“No,” Simmons said and was betrayed by his nausea. He had to put a fist against his mouth to keep back the bile.

“You should see what they do in the fallen QZ’s. I heard Sidewinder fell last week. Citizens had been hoarding illegal weapons and – bam – they turned on their protectors. They even say the Fireflies weren’t involved. Just brainless idiots who wanted to feel strong for a day.” He followed Simmons’ stare to give the body a light kick before looking at his teammate again. “Do you know what they did to the soldiers? They hung them in the street lights to rot. At least we make it quick. Heartless bastards, the lot of them.”

Simmons had heard the rumors. It didn’t exactly help with the anxiety that hit him every morning when he put on the uniform. “Yeah…” he said, gulping. “I sure hope it won’t happen here.”

“Oh so do I!” Phil tilted his head. “They’d tear you apart in a second! I’d prefer the needle, really.” He put a hand on Simmons’ shoulder, sending him a small smile. “Think about that when you put them down. It’ll probably make it easier. Probably.”

“I don’t like their screaming,” Simmons admitted, closing his eyes.

Phil nodded, seemingly agreeing with him. That helped. A little. “Yeah, it’s easier when they blow their own brains out. It doesn’t really matter, does it? They’re fucked anyway. We’re doing them a favor.”

True. He had to focus on that. Simmons looked at the dead smuggler on the ground, noticing the torn and dirty clothes, the scratches on his knuckles. He understood that life in the Zone wasn’t easy for everyone. But… The smuggler had been doomed to die.

At least the injection was quick and relatively painful. Just the thought of turning into an Infected made him feel sick…

“I’ll try to remember that,” he said.

“It’s all about control,” Phil told him, nodding. “Uprisings could happen here too, you know.”

Simmons widened his eyes. “Do you- do you really think that? I mean, things seem calm-“

‘Calm’ was a relative word. He hadn’t forgotten the explosion in Area 2 three weeks ago. Or the attack on the supply shelter. Or all the new Fireflies graffiti.

“Dude, have you met the people in Area 5?” Phil asked him. “Bloodthirsty bastards the lot of them.”

Simmons knew Area 5 was the place with most troubles. That the smuggling activity was at the highest in that Area, that fights between civilians were more common there, that the military had basically given up on destroying the Black Market at this point.

But he also knew that Dexter Grif hadn’t been the ideal illustration of this so-called ‘bloodthirsty bastard’. Even though he’d come from Area 5.

“I heard- I heard Miller say the Fireflies are the biggest threat,” Simmons said instead, speaking truthfully. These days Simmons was more worried about being blown up in an attack by the militia group than bystanders attacking him.

“True. But civilians or Fireflies – all want to see us hang.” Phil sighed deeply. “The apocalypse sure didn’t leave any gratefulness behind, huh.”

Simmons couldn’t argue against that.

He turned to leave the street, knowing Officer Gain probably wouldn’t want him around after his failure.

But Phil reached out for him, saying, “Hey, Simmons, if your father asks, mention there actually are some good soldiers in this squad. Ready for a promotion.” He shrugged, his smile showing again. “Can’t spend the rest of my life putting down infected bastards. Still, it beats standing guard. Talk about boring.” He tilted his head in Simmons’ direction. “Didn’t you use to have shifts there?”

God, Simmons hoped the rumors about his last job hadn’t spread.

He felt the warmth in his cheeks. “Yes, but-“ He still remembered working as a guard at the supply shelter. It had only been a week ago when the attack had happened. After seeing a fellow guard being shot by an illegal weapon, Simmons had hidden in an empty crate instead of attacking. When the Fireflies had finally been killed, Simmons had been moved to the Cordyceps Brain Infection Squad instead. “I thought this might be more my thing.”

Phil’s smile almost looked sympathetic. “You were wrong about that, huh.”

* * *

Looking back, at least all his failures had told him one thing: it was best to inform his father of them before anyone else did. He’d been pissed when Simmons had screwed up in outside work duty. And he’d been even more angry when Simmons got moved to another job – failing at shooting Fireflies, protecting storages, tracking down fake food tickets sellers.

Now he’d been given the easy job of just injecting people with lethal poison, and he failed to do that as well.

The Federal Disaster Response Agency, commonly called FEDRA, had their main offices in one of the most stable high-rise buildings in Area 1. Simmons had been there many times before. He wasn’t even sure where his father officially lived. From Simmons knowledge he just pretty much lived in his office, or travelled around as he sometimes had to visit the other few remaining Quarantine Zones out there.

Simmons had never left the Zone. Well, except from before the outbreak, oh, and during his outside work duty.

He didn’t recognize the secretary. But he knew his father had a habbit of firing them, always afraid of spies from the Fireflies.

He cleared his throat as he neared the reception desk. “Hi. Is Mr. Simmons-“

“There’s been an emergency meeting concerning the renovation of Area 1,” she told him stiffly, looking through a bunch of papers.

“Oh.” Simmons tilted his head upwards, looking at a chandelier. The nice thing about Area 1 was how they tried to keep it in a good shape. Things were worn eighteen years after the outbreak, but they were trying to keep things livable and the electricity somewhat stable. Being outside the Zone had showed him nothing but ruins and death. At least here he could be reminded of the fact that Earth still had a civilized society. “I suppose he won’t find time today, then?”

The secretary nodded. “That would be unlikely.”

“If you see him-“ Simmons cleared his throat, trying to make his voice sound deeper. “Tell him I can assist the meeting if he wants to-“

“The access to the newest plans is very limited, Mr. Simmons.” She frowned when she had to address him to same way as his father. “I’m afraid you are not on the list of accepted presence just yet.”

“That’s okay,” Simmons said. He coughed, trying to save face but he knew his cheeks were flaming hot. “Have a nice day.”

He managed to catch the sight of the secretary glaring at him like he was crazy before he fled the building.

* * *

Simmons liked his apartment. It was small and quiet. Filled with books. He’d read all of them, of course. It was hard to get his hands in new stuff.

And all the scientific papers were automatically given to the lab first. Simmons tried not to spend his nights dreaming about a clean lab with the best technology available and working computers and –

It was really hard not to compare a job in the laboratory with the job as a soldier.

But of course the real treat would be studying samples from outside the Wall.

Simmons was daydreaming about old monitors and comic books when there was a knock on the door.

He almost fell out of his couch.

For a moment he considered not opening it – he knew of the dangers in the Zone, even with Area 1 being the safest place – but then he realized it might be his father checking up on him.

Simmons ran to the door.

He opened it, just some inches to be sure, and found himself staring into a tan round face, surrounded by a mess of black hair.

Simmons thought of Grif.

“You’re Dick, right?” the stranger asked.

It was a girl. There was a girl in his doorway. A girl that Simmons did not know. _A girl_. “I, uhm… Yes,” he said, too baffled to do anything but answer the question.

“Great!” the girl said, smiling, and then she just pushed past Simmons, getting the door open and stepping inside the apartment. She looked around, mouth open. “Wow. Fancy. Is it true you guys have working television?”

Simmons closed the door, locking it out of pure habit. “No? Should we?” He stared at the stranger in his living room who was walking around, poking stuff and glaring at his items.

“Shit. That’s a shame. I know this guy who collects vintage porn and we’ve been dying to find a DVD player and- Fuck, that’s a nice couch.”

Before he could stop her, she just jumped onto his couch, bouncing up and down as the furniture creaked. “Black leather,” she said, smacking her palm against it. “Kinky.”

Simmons pressed two fingers against his nose bridge, just to make sure this scene was real. “Who are-“

“You know my brother!” she said, smiling. “Dex! I’m Kaikaina, by the way.”

Simmons froze. He’d never known anyone named Dex before, but the resemblance in Kaikaina’s face was impossible to ignore.

“Dexter Grif?” Kaikaina said, apparently too inpatient for Simmons to say it out loud himself. “C’mon, it gotta ring a bell. He said you two hooked up.”

His eyes grew even wider. “He what?”

“Just kidding! Actually, he said you two got chased by Runners together and then you almost died but you didn’t, and that he saved your life.”

“I… Yes.” That was one way of describing what had happened outside the Quarantine Zone. He couldn’t exactly deny the fact that Grif had saved him, though he had to point out it was Grif’s fault they’d been in trouble in the first place. He shook his head to focus his thoughts. “Wait, why are you here? _How_ did you get here?”

Kaikaina shrugged, throwing herself back in the couch to make herself comfortable. “The guards let me in.”

“The guards at the… Wait, you got through the checkpoint?” While it was technically allowed to move through Areas if you had your papers right and a good reason, and if you did it before curfew, Simmons also knew that Area 1 barely let anyone from other Areas inside.

Kaikaina just looked proud of herself. “Sure! I’m not the type of girl to get on my knees just to crawl through tunnels. Dex does that. Anyway, I just showed the guy my papers and said I had an appointment at your place.”

“You… _What sort of appointment_?” Simmons asked with dread.

“You know.” She winked at him. When Simmons just remained as frozen as a statue, she tilted her head. “Look, sweetheart, I only let people call me a whore when I can turn it into my advantage.”

“They think- _Ohmygod,_ you said I hired you?”

He knew that was a thing. That some people in the more poor Areas earned extra food tickets by letting themselves become entertainment for the men willing to pay for it.

And Kaikaina…

Simmons didn’t talk to girls often. He was probably not to the right guy to judge but, yeah, ‘pretty’ was probably a good adjective to use. Plus she had that attitude. The smirk and wink…

“Isn’t it like a normal thing in Area 1?” she asked him innocently. “I didn’t want to raise suspicion.”

They’d allowed her inside the zone because they thought…

Oh god.

They thought she was here for him.

If father heard about this, Simmons was sure he’d be moved to work in the sewer or something.

“ _Why_ are you here?” he asked her, one hand against the wall to support himself.

Kaikaina’s careless expression fell apart when she frowned. “So Dex has been gone for a while. Too long. And I’m not stupid. He’s in trouble.”

Simmons’ stomach did a flip again.  It’d been almost half a year since he’d met the draftee when they worked outside the Wall, and a lot of stuff had happened since, but still, he hadn’t been able to forget Grif. “’ _Gone_ ’? I don’t understand…” Why would Grif’s sister come to him? “Can’t you ask the guards for help?”

“They won’t go outside the Wall.”

“Why the fuck is Grif outside the Wall?” Simmons demanded to know. Had he been drafted again? If he hadn’t found another job, maybe that had been the case, but then the military should either have completed a rescue mission or declared him dead. When soldiers disappeared, their families were told they were dead to avoid people trying to leave the Zone.

Why would Kaikaina come here?

“’cause that’s his job?” she said, shrugging and looking at Simmons like he was an idiot.

After all the failures that had happened in the last half a year, Simmons was beginning to feel like one.

Kaikaina saw his confused expression and continued, “Oh man, he didn’t lie when he said he hadn’t been sending you secret messages.” She uncrossed her legs to lean closer to him as she explained, “So Dex got a job as a smuggler, and it’s been great and all, but he was supposed to be back three weeks ago. Dex hates showing up on time but… He’d never be this late.”

Simmons fell back into his armchair and winced when he landed on the edge of a book.

Frown growing bigger by the second, Kaikaina said, “And he told me that if he didn’t show up after three weeks, I should go to you.”

Simmons’ mouth fell open. “ _What_?” He furrowed his brows, trying to find the right words. “I- What can _I_ do?”

If Grif was lost outside the Wall, he was dead. Smugglers died. They always did. That was why being smuggler was a stupid job. Either they got caught and were punished, or they died from the dangers outside the Zone, or they got infected.

A smuggler didn’t get a long, happy life.

And Simmons’ job was one of the reasons why that was the case.

“You can find him, right?” Kaikaina asked him. Her hand suddenly dug into her too short shirt that allowed him to see her belly button. She pulled out an unopened envelope. “He told me to give you this. In case you think I’m full of shit.” She threw it at him. “I’ve never opened it ‘cause Dex told me he’d never bring back snacks if I did, but he said to just knock on your door, give it to you, and you’d help me.”

Simmons looked at her with a frown before opening the letter.

_Simmons,_

_When you read this, I am dead. Which sucks._  
_Look, I will not sugarcoat it. You owe me. I saved your ass. And I need you to repay me._  
 _This is Kai. She is a pain in the ass, but she is smart and she is my sister._  
 _Help her out. Okay? With me gone, she needs a job. A good one. Area 5 is shady is shit and ~~there are people~~ she does not deserve that._  
 _I hate begging but I guess I do not have to give a fuck about my dignity anymore. One good thing about being dead._  
 _You owe me. Please. You can find a good job for her. Maybe a better home than ~~our~~ her apartment._  
 _I know you can help._  
 _~~Ple  
~~ You wanted to be square. Remember?_

_Thanks for the memories of hiding from a Clicker. You just cannot forget trauma, right?_

_-Grif_

“So,” Kaikaina Grif said, looking up at him with eyes full of hope. “You gonna find him?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we had a lot of minor characters in this fic, and so far I’m doing my best to actually name them after characters in the show. Max Gain (yes. That’s his name) was the Blue who captured Grif and Church in the final episode of s2, and Phil is the soldier Wyoming kills when going into the prison to taunt Church and Grif. The more you know.
> 
> I am so happy with how this chapter turned out. I feel like we are slowly actually touching the real plot. Which feels amazing. I really like writing for this universe and the fun is just about to start.  
> Also: Kai happened. It makes me happy.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Feel free to share your thoughts, it'd make my day!


	9. The Slum

“But there’s a curfew!” Kaikaina Grif reminded him smugly, smacking her lips. She’d stretched out her legs to fill the entirety of the couch, looking up at him with her hands behind her head.

Simmons opened his mouth. “Yes. Fuck.” He ran a hand through his hair as he realized he couldn’t disagree with her. All the checkpoints were closed now, and if any soldiers saw them on the streets, they’d be arrested. “Don’t you guys have like… secret tunnels?

“Not in Area 1. You guys have like guards guarding your guards. Cop-heaven.” She sunk deeper into the black leather, apparently making herself comfortable. “I’m surprised I didn’t get cuffed on my way to here. And I asked for it!”

“Okay. Okay.” Simmons paced back and forth for a while, already imagining the look on his father’s face when the rumors reached him. It was hardly believable, he supposed. A girl would be spending her night in Simmons’ apartment. “You can stay on the couch.”

Kai threw her fist in the air. “Hell yeah.”

“In here. And don’t move,” he warned her. He could survive having her in the living room, but he had to keep the bedroom off limits. He’d heard of all the sickness in Area 5 – and Kaikaina’s clothes were noticeable dirty, even in the standard of the apocalypse. “Tomorrow I’ll get you back to Area 5.”

“You said you were going to find me a job.”

“Yes. I did.”

Simmons lifted his head to take a proper look at her. It was hard. Her eyes were piercing, and the were so brown, just like Grif’s. Not because he knew _why_ he remembered Grif’s eyes. It wasn’t like he’d spent a lot of time looking at them or anything.

But Kaikaina kept moving her lips in this strange fashion, and she was showing so much skin, and he wondered if she wasn’t cold, now when she had such few clothing items on her. They’d just entered fall, but the air was already chilly.

In order to find her a job, he had to figure out what she could be.

And right now, looking at Kaikaina Grif, he had no idea what he could trust her with.

“So how’s a job gonna help us find Dex?” Kaikaina asked him right when he was standing in the doorway, trying to flee the room.

He bit his lip as he slowly turned around. “Well, if- if Grif isn’t here right now, you need a stable job while he’s gone. Or you’re gonna end up drafted.”

“Hey, if my brother could be a soldier, I could be too! And I’m waaay more athletic than Dexter. And more flexible.”

“I don’t… doubt that.” He tried not to flinch as he remembered how slow Grif had been on the patrols. But, well, he’d learned to run when the Runners had come for them.

Kaikaina crossed her legs, pushing herself up slightly to stare directly at him. “So how are we going to find Dex?”

Simmons raised a finger in the air, ready to answer that question. Except he had no idea how to answer that. So he let his hand fall and said, “I need to sleep on that.”

“But-“

“ _It’s been a long day_ ,” he said, painfully aware of how his voice broke. But what he was saying was true. The chaos with Kaikaina had almost made him forget about the chaos at work. _Almost_.

“Geez, don’t turn all choirboy with me,” she said, rolling her brown eyes. She let out a dissatisfied huff as she waved her hands around. “So we’re just gonna spend all evening here?”

Squaring his shoulders, Simmons turned his head away. “Yes.” It wasn’t like it was a hard thing to do. Simmons spent all his evenings in his apartment. Alone.

Like they were supposed to.

Kaikaina smacked her lips again, so loudly it seemed to echo in the apartment. “Wow. For an Area with so much stuff, you’re so boring.”

“Yeah, I heard Area 5 is full of parties,” he replied dryly. He wasn’t sure what people from the other Areas expected from Area 1. He knew they were lucky. That they were located in the center of the city. That Area was the safest, the one with the most supplies.

He was aware of that.

But it wasn’t like he could change the circumstances in the other Areas.

Kaikaina met his eyes. Damn, why did they have to look so much like Grif’s? “So great that apparently you hear about them,” she said with a teasing smile before tilting her head. “You can’t trust everything you hear about Area 5.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, glance going towards the ceiling. Sure, he’d heard a lot of rumors about Area 5 before he’d joined the outside duty squad. Meeting Grif had proven some of the rumors right, but the heavy-set man had also expanded his knowledge, telling him about things he’d never heard of before. “Grif told me stuff.”

“I bet he did,” Kaikaina said, and her smile turned less smug, more sincere. “Look, big bro likes you. You’re the only name he bothered to remember.”

Simmons thought about that. He really did. He thought about that and wondered what it could mean. It shouldn’t be such surprising knowledge – Simmons had bothered to remember Grif’s name as well.

But still…

He wondered.

“And obviously you remember him too,” Kaikaina said, blinking with her long eyelashes.

“Yeah, well, he was a big pain in the ass.”

He didn’t exactly lie.

Kaikaina sent him a big, bright smile. “That’s Dexter Grif.”

Simmons turned his back to her, ready to find her a blanket so he could be left alone with his thoughts. But there was a worry gnawing the back of his brain, a question that made him doubt this entire situation.

He froze with one hand on the doorframe. “So, uhm, Kaikaina? I- I don’t really know a lot about the wasteland – mainly because _I_ am the one aware that it’s absolutely illegal to cross the Wall but _whatever_ … Do you think there’s a small chance that… Grif is dead?”

He feared the silence that would come after the question.

But it never came.

“Nope!” she replied immediately. Her expression turned stern as she sat up in the couch. “Look, you could run my big bro over with a tank, and he’d survive. Pretty sure one of the teachers back in the school actually tried that. Oh, and there was a time he tried to eat a really moldy snackcake and the nurse said he’d probably ruined his stomach and they even gave him some medicine, and the nurse took me aside and talked about loss and grief and all that sort of shit, and then he woke up the next day and was just fine. Grifs don’t die. We’re too stubborn for that.”

He liked how sure she seemed of herself. The certainty. And confidence.

It was… comforting.

“Okay,” he said and bowed his head to look down at his own worn wooden floor. “Okay. I’ll grab you a blanket.”

“You’re pretty fucking weird,” Kaikaina told him before he could leave the room. “I think that’s why he likes you.”

“Yeah…” he sighed, entering his bedroom. Then he widened his eyes. “Wait, what?”

* * *

 “I have to go back to work in a couple of hours. So we have until then to brainstorm where they might hire you,” Simmons said firmly, trying his best to hide the fact that he’d spent the whole night awake trying to come up with a proper idea. “The letter of recommendation should work.”

He fastened his pace but Kaikaina remained right at his side. “So when are we gonna talk about Dex?” she asked, poking his shoulder. “Dude, I did not come all this way for you to give me the cold shoulder. We didn’t even fuck!”

He cowered at her words, eyes darting around to see if anyone was paying attention to them. But the streets were quite empty, a few soldiers here and there. It was early in the morning, right when the curfew ended. “Not so loud!” he hissed, keeping his shoulders hunched.

But Kaikaina just narrowed her brown eyes, hissing back, “I’m gonna tell the whole city you gave me chlamydia if you don’t help me.”

For a split second, Simmons froze. But then he understood that such a behavior was suspicious, and he couldn’t afford gaining the guards’ attention. “That’s blackmailing.”

“You promised to help me,” Kaikaina insisted. “These are the small letters in the contract, nerd. You help me and your uptight ass stays safe from imaginary STDs.”

It was bad enough if his father heard he’d had an Area 5 girl visit him. If he heard that Simmons got a disease from her-

“I don’t feel happy about this,” he muttered darkly under his breath.

“Join the club, gingerman,” she replied to him. “We’re gonna find me brother, no matter what- Hey, Tucker!”

They came to a halt, both turning their heads towards the dark-skinned man that had been about to pass them on the sidewalk. His head shot up in surprise, staring at them with widened eyes.

“What the fuck?” he asked, looking at Kaikaina. Then his glance fell on Simmons and he exclaimed, “ _What the fuck_?”

Simmons, recognizing Tucker, said, “What the fuck?”

And Kaikaina, staring at the both of them, put her hands on her hips. “Look, you two can’t say ‘fuck’ so many times in ten seconds without opening a harem.”

“What are you doing here?” Tucker asked her, voice turning harsh as he added, “With him?”

“Well, _someone_ has to help me find Dex and apparently your dick is too small to sign up for it.”

Tucker’s mouth fell opened as his eyes softened. “Look, Kai-“ And his eyes went to the old watch on his wrist. “Shit, I’m late. I gotta find Sheila before the classes start.”

Simmons knew that it was none of his business – that smugglers were bad company to begin with. But he couldn’t help but ask in disbelief, “Classes? You’re going to school?”

Tucker tilted his head towards him. “Exactly.” He looked a bit different from when they’d met in the Wasteland. He still had his rough demeanor, but the clothes were less dirty, had fewer holes in them.

“Oooh, I can work there!” Kaikaina exclaimed in excitement, and she turned her head towards Simmons, as if looking for his approval.

Frowning, Tucker looked at her again. “You’re looking for a job in Area 1?”

“Yep,” she said and held up the letter where Simmons’ had descripted (made up) her skills, with his signature at the bottom of the paper. “Got a letter of recommendation and everything.”

For a moment Tucker didn’t move. Then he blinked, shaking his head as if to clear his thoughts. “You know what – I think Sheila might like you. She’s… _cool_ with people from Area 5.”

“Sweet,” Kaikaina said, fist in the air again, as if victory was already hers.

“Who’s Sheila?” Simmons asked, less trusting and less happy than the Grif sibling.

“Is she hot?” Kaikaina asked, directing a question towards Tucker as well.

The smuggler groaned before walking away, giving them a shrug. “I’m going there now. Join me if you don’t slow me down. I can’t miss this.”

Like Simmons, Kaikaina didn’t fail to notice the urgency in his voice. “Sounds like a party somewhere,” she said before sending Simmons a warning glare. “You stay here. Otherwise it’s chlamydia.”

“Do I even want to know?” Tucker sighed, hearing her threat, and he sent Simmons a cold stare before walking away towards the tall building at the end of the street, Kaikaina at his side.

Abandoned in the middle of the street, Simmons shifted the weight on his feet, trying to figure out what to do until he had company again. There was a slight drizzle in the air, and he ended up leaning against one of the buildings’ façade, crossing his legs.

This was not how he’d expected his day to turn out.

He’d never expected to meet Grif’s sister. He’d never expected Grif asking for help. He’d never expected to see Tucker again.

But suddenly, in a single day, the past seemed to have caught up with him.

He wasn’t even sure what he was doing. But Grif was right – he did owe him a favor. And he could find a job for Kaikaina here. It would be a bit hard – but it beat leaving the Zone like Kaikaina was expecting of him.

If he could give her a stable job, she could work her way to an apartment in a better Area, and then he’d fulfilled Grif’s request.

And then he could stop thinking about him ever again.

 “Got the job!” Kaikaina yelled at him as she came walking down the street. He could see her big smile, even with the distance between them.

“You did?” he asked, disbelief too obvious in his voice. So he cleared his throat before repeating the sentence. “You did. Okay, good.”

So far, so good. Soon he could get this over with. He could let go of the guilt and the worry.

And start worrying about his own job instead.

Kaikaina caught up with him, letting him see all the teeth in her smile. “Yep. Starting there next week when all the papers are sorted out. Told me to stay home and prepare mentally. Pfft. I mean, how hard can kids be?”

Simmons’ mouth fell open. “ _Kids_? You’re… With kids?” It made sense, seeing how Tucker obviously hadn’t visited a school for his own sake. But the thought of Kaikaina Grif with kids around her…

Well, he’d only known her for a day. He really shouldn’t be the one to judge.

Kaikaina shrugged but kept the grin on her face. “Never thought I’d get out boarding school just to find another one.”

“I…” he trailed off, remembering the few details Grif had given him about his childhood. He didn’t know what to say to this. So instead, he spoke one of his thoughts out loud. “Wait, what was Tucker doing at a boarding school?”

Kaikaina looked at him, eyes narrowed in suspicion, and he could see the process in her expression as she finally decided she couldn’t trust him completely yet.  “Well, you can ask him about that tonight,” she said, shrugging.

It just made his grown grow bigger. “Tonight?”

“I’ve arranged a date,” she said carelessly as she began to walk down the street.

“What?!” he shrieked, going after her.

“Relax,” she snorted at his scream. “Dude, you’re louder than those stupid sirens. There’s no bomb-threat, everyone, calm down!”

“ _Kaikaina_ ,” he hissed, hoping that no one had paid them too much attention yet.

The Grif sibling sighed, crossing her arms as she told him, “So you know that Tucker and that Washington dude are smugglers. Dex told me the whole story. Well, they got him introduced to the job. They hafta know where he is.”

“So they… they are going to come to me?” Simmons said, trying not to sound too hopeful.

Life had taught him it was a bad idea to have too many hopes.

“Here?” she asked, laughing. “No way. No one likes cops, Simmons. You’re coming to Area 5.”

* * *

By some miracle, he managed to show up at work on time, after having sent Kaikaina away in the direction of the checkpoint. The soldiers were still getting dressed for today’s inspections: some of them getting into hazmat-suits, while others were strapping guns to their backs.

Simmons was about to reload his pistol when Officer Gain turned towards him. “Simmons, you’re not coming with us today,” he said briefly, watching Phil prepare the syringes with poison.

The pistol almost slipped out of Simmons’ hand. “What?” he asked, lips numb. “Why? I-“

“Because I cannot find a job you can’t mess up.”

“I…” When the officer began to walk away from him, he forced himself to move, to go after him. “I can do better. Maybe the next one won’t scream so loud! I can-“

“It’s already been decided,” Gain told him firmly. He swiped his visor down before Simmons could look for any sign of pity in his eyes. “Your father wants to see you in the weekend. He won’t have time before that.”

“I, uh… Okay.”

Simmons’ mouth felt dry as he watched the soldiers leave the HQ, ready to fulfill their duty by protecting the city from criminals and infected.

Only Phil sent him a look at he walked past him, shrugging slightly.

As he watched them go, Simmons tried to rub the burning feeling away from his eyes.

His mind felt absolutely numb but he was sure of one thing:

For once, he really needed a drink.

* * *

To his surprise, Area 5 wasn’t quite as bad as he’d expected. The soldiers at the checkpoint had sent him some strange looks, especially after recognizing his name on the papers. Or maybe they just noticed the redness in his eyes.

Anyway, they let him in after he awkwardly coughed out some explanation about meeting a friend from outside duty.

The streets didn’t look so different from what he was used to. Worn facades, military blockages. This Area did seem to have more broken windows and more graffiti that the Military hadn’t quite managed to remove.

He walked down the main road aimlessly, trying not to look too suspicious, until he finally spotted the giant mess of black hair. Kaikaina Grif waved at him, peaking her head from a darkened alley.

Any other day, Simmons would have screamed and ran in the opposite direction.

But not today.

“You look like hell,” Kaikaina told him the moment he came close enough.

“Well, I have to try to fit in,” Simmons replied dryly, not caring that he looked like he’d spent the afternoon crying, that his shirt was wrinkled, that he looked… jobless. He was jobless.

“Harsh,” she said, clicking her tongue at the insult. “I like that.” Then, without warning, she placed an old, worn cap on his head. “Here. Now you fit in. Except your clothes are too nice.”

He gingerly touched his new accessory, trying not to cringe at the thought of who had been wearing it before him. “I- I chose this shirt on purpose! There are _holes_ in this shirt!” he said, stomping a foot against the concrete.

As if he’d ever look this bad on purpose…

Kaikaina Grif just tilted her head, lips slowly pulling back to form a smile. “Dex wasn’t lying. You really are delicate.” She made a gesture for him to follow as she walked down the alley. “The apocalypse has to be tough for you, huh?”

“You have no idea…” Simmons sighed before following her down the darkened path.

And slowly their surroundings began to change.

The buildings became more overgrown, more windows had been boarded, and the Fireflies logo showed up numerous places, in white and black painting.

As he walked past the graffiti saying _“LOOK FOR THE LIGHT”,_ Kaikaina gestured for him to follow her into an abandoned warehouse. Simmons tore himself away from the Fireflies graffiti and wondered if anyone believed such propaganda.

Judging from the recent rise in attack, people did.

Kaikaina was waiting for him at the rear entrance, holding the door open so they could enter the new street together.

And then they were no longer alone.

Simmons could not help but let his jaw fall when he found himself in the black market. Numerous stalls had been created by stacking crates, attaching covers to fences and placing patched up tents.

The air was filled with muffled muttering, dogs barking and a few angry shouts in the distance. There was a smell as well – the usual stench from mold and trash, but also the smell of fire and something being cooked on them.

Simmons bit his lip, suddenly realizing how hungry he was.

The people in the slum lived up to his expectations. The attitude he met was hostile and threatening, and he kept his head low as Kaikaina led him past several ragged-looking civilians.

The smell of food slowly grew stronger until Simmons turned his head and found himself looking at a stall, a name written on the wooden boards.

 “ _Sammie’s_?” he said, reading out loud. The cook standing behind the makeshift grill narrowed his eyes.

Simmons remembered this place. Not that he’d been here before, but Grif had mentioned it during their patrols together. He’d said it had the best food. And with food Simmons had thought… Well, he preferred never to think about what they were actually served in their rations, but he hadn’t expected the so-called best place in town to have _rats_ being roasted.

Kaikaina placed herself next to him and inhaled deeply, taking in the smell. “Best rat in town,” she said, sounding like a memory of her brother.

Simmons decided not to comment on that, and they continued their way between tents and stalls. He saw guns for sales, dogs, food, daggers, all sorts of weapons.

He should report this. He knew he should. It was his job-

Well, it had been his job.

But Kaikaina’s guiding hand and the stares he received from the merchants made him stay quiet.

He almost jumped when one of the strangers suddenly stepped forward, blocking their path.

“Hey, Kai. Here for a hand on that ass?”

“You want a fist in the dick?” Kaikaina sneered back smugly before pulling Simmons forward, unwilling to be slowed down by the men.

“Who’s the fresh meat?” one of them asked as Simmons was dragged past them.

“My new roommate,” Kaikaina replied before flipping him off.

Simmons was sure that would be it. That the men would jump on them and beat them up. But Kaikaina effortlessly made her way forward, pulling Simmons along.

“You know you’re not moving in, right?” he asked nervously, unsure if she was trying to burn down bridges by irritating the merchants.

But Kaikaina stayed calm. “Sure. Just gotta knock down that ego. He tried to steal Dex’s ration cards once, that asshole.”

Oh well. As long as it meant she didn’t expect to move in with him.

Finally, they reached the building at the end of the crowded street. They stepped inside what turned out to be a bar.

It was filled with the same types that had been glaring at them in the market, and Simmons gulped, staying in Kaikaina’s shadow as she led him to a table in the corner.

It was partially covered in shadows, but Simmons recognized Tucker – and Washington sitting next to him. He hadn’t changed much, save for perhaps gaining some new scars.

The two smugglers nodded at each other before leaning back in their seats, gesturing for them to join their table.

Simmons nervously tugged at his gloves, making sure they stayed in place.

“Have fun,” Kaikaina told him and then turned around to leave.

“You’re… not coming with me?” Simmons said, trying his best not to let his anxiety show.

“Tucker said no girls allowed. Just come find me when you’re done. Then we can share gossip.”

And then Simmons was left alone – in a bar – in the middle of the Slum.

He was pretty sure he was going insane.

Of course he’d considered just not meeting up with Kaikaina but… Then he’d just be at home, spending the rest of his evening crying about his failures. And, of course, he’d thought about the possibility of the smuggler coming after him if he broke his so-called promise to Kaikaina.

Plus… Well, it wasn’t like he _wasn’t_ curious about Grif’s fate.

Simmons cleared his throat as he sat down. “It’s… good to see you again.”

“Let’s just say it was a surprise to see you again,” Wash replied calmly, folding his hands on top of the table.

Simmons wouldn’t disagree with that.

“Okay, first of all: how the hell did Kai get you to do this?” Tucker asked him and he leaned across the table to give him his full attention. Eyes narrowed in concentration, Wash focused on him as well.

Simmons stuttered as he tried to give them an answer. “I… I owe Grif a favor,” he finally said, knowing that was the truth.

“By finding him?” Tucker said, sounding surprised.

Rubbing the back of his neck, Simmons explained, “No, he left a letter asking me to help Kai out. With a job and… stuff like that. In case he’s dead.”

Wash shifted in his seat, eyes curious as he asked him, “Do you think he’s dead?”

“I- I was going to ask you that,” Simmons said, frowning. “Kai said… I mean, you know him. I think. I- I really don’t know the whole story but-“

The smugglers shared another look. It was dark inside the bar, and they sat rather isolated in the corner of the room. But Simmons had to admit that sitting with the two smugglers made him feel more safe than if he’d been here alone.

They were… what, former teammates, after all. If they could call it that.

They’d worked together, at least. And they hadn’t harmed him then.

“We helped him with the job,” Tucker said, leaning back in his seat. “Getting the start up gears and the first deals.”

“But you don’t work together?”

“No,” Tucker answered him quickly. Seeing Simmons’ confused expression, he explained, “Look, we hang out. Sometimes. But we don’t take the same deals.”

Simmons had thought that when Grif became a smuggler, he’d join the pair. Then again, looking at Wash, he didn’t really seem like the type of guy Grif would become friends with.

But neither did Simmons, now when he thought about it.

“Why?”

“Grif has another routine,” Tucker said, but as Simmons’ frown didn’t disappear, he tried to explain it in another way. “How would you describe Grif?”

Oh, Simmons had plenty of colorful descriptions ready. But he went with the more basic ones instead. “Fat. Lazy-“

“Ding, ding, ding,” Tucker said, as if he’d just won a prize. “ _Lazy_. The guy doesn’t want to leave the Zone if he can help it. But he still has to earn for his living. But if he has less trips-“

“They have to pay more,” Simmons said as the realization hit him.

Wash nodded, expression still neutral. “Exactly. Tucker and I have our own rules. There are people we won’t work for. Packages we won’t smuggle.”

“So Grif takes the riskier jobs?” Simmons said and mentally decided, once again, that Grif was a huge dumbass.

“The riskier it is, the more he gets paid,” Tucker told him. “The more he gets paid, the more time he can spend here with Kai.”

It made sense. Simmons hated it, but it did. If Grif had to work alone, leaving the Zone as little as possible would make sense. Especially knowing Grif’s love for spending his day lying on a couch. But in order to make ends meet, that would mean more valuable objects to smuggle.

And that… That meant a greater risk. Simmons bit his lip before asking the dreaded question, “So you think it got him killed?” Maybe they just hated the idea of telling Kaikaina the news as much as he did.

But Tucker said, “I don’t think he’s dead.”

“You don’t?”

“He’s late,” Tucker said, voice firm. “And, yeah, that isn’t a good sign, but the world out there is big. There’s a lot of stuff you can run into. A lot of reasons why you don’t show up on time. Besides – he’s Grif. The day he isn’t late, I’d be worried.”

That… that actually made sense. Simmons didn’t know much about being a smuggler, but he did know Grif (at least, a little bit), and he knew that Grif would rather be late than on time. “Okay, that’s- that’s good.”

“Kaikaina thinks you’re on your way out to find him,” Wash said, grey eyes settling on Simmons again as he awaited a response.

Simmons’ mouth fell open. “Me? Leaving the Zone? For Grif?”

Well. That was an absolute ridiculous thought.

“So why are you here?” Wash asked him, tilting his head.

He should have been prepared for that question, but Simmons still couldn’t keep his voice steady as he tried to reply, “I thought- I though that since you two- you are smugglers as well, so maybe…”

Tucker sighed loudly. “Simmons, I hate to break it to you, but there’s a very big world outside that wall.”

“I know that! I’m not- I’m not stupid.” Simmons knew a lot about the world around them. He knew of other Quarantine Zones – some where the Military still had the power, some that had fallen to either Fireflies or rebels within the civilians. He’d seen his Father’s maps, he knew there was a world around them.

But he also remembered the old world, the one he’d grown up in until he was five. Where there were no big walls, where the streets were busy with traffic and there had been shops filled with people, where there’d been no Infected, no threat to their civilization.

But that was a long time ago.

Simmons sighed, running a hand down his face. He was tired. He wanted this horrible day to end. Not that he expected tomorrow to be better. “And we don’t know where he is?” he said.

“I mean, we can-“ Tucker was cut off by Wash sending him a glare.

Despite the smuggler’s intimidating attitude, Simmons couldn’t help but see it as a hope he had to investigate. “You can find out where he is?” he asked, trying not to sound breathless.

Sharing another glance with his partner, Tucker finally said, “Well, if we find out who his client is, we can try to figure it out.”

“And how do we do that?”

Tucker and Wash both sighed in unison.

* * *

“Would you look at that, mi amigas! Guess what the cat spat out with the hairball. Tucker, hey, Tuuuucker-”

“Hi, Vic,” Tucker said with a sigh as they all sat down in a bar chair near the counter. Both of the smugglers looked pained, while Simmons just tried to stay behind them, unsure of what to do.

The bartender turned towards the blonde smuggler. “And mister Super-agent Stone-Face!” he exclaimed, smile turning smug. “What brings me the pleasure?”

“We have a question,” Wash said briefly.

“And I have the answers. Bring it on, my dudes, bring it on. I know everything. About everything. And everyone! And- Who are you?”

His brown eyes narrowed as he stared at Simmons.

“No one,” Tucker said before Simmons could even open his mouth.

“That’s a funny-looking no one if I’ve ever seen one. And I have!” The bartender laughed shortly, still trying to lean in Simmons’ direction. “Never seen his face around-“

“That’s because he’s smart enough to stay out of this hell-hole,” Tucker said firmly to gain Vic’s attention. “Look. Dexter Grif. Who’s the last one to hire him? I know that you know.”

“I do know. I know everything.”

“Then speak,” Wash growled in a manner that made Simmons question how the bartender could keep himself from spilling everything he knew.

Vic’s mouth fell open as he blinked. “But I’m the personification of credibility! Loyalty! Absolutely pure trust from all those who entrust in me-“ When the tall bundle of ration cards was shoved across the bar counter, he cut himself off and smiled. With a quick motion, he’d swiped the cards into his hands, hiding them behind the bar. “There’s a famine in this Area, my dudes. I gotta think about my kids! That I might get in the future! Everyone man for himself, that’s-“

“Just tell us.”

Smiling at Tucker’s sigh, Vic tilted his head, leaning closer as he told them with a low voice, “I heard your friend got offered a preeetty sweet deal from one of the top dogs of the Firebugs.”

“You mean the Fireflies,” Simmons said automatically, giving into the instinct to correct his fellow man.

Both of the smugglers flinched, eyes darting around.

Just as Simmons realized his mistake, the bartender came closer to him. “Careful saying that word too loud. I hear soldiers are beginning to drag people off for interrogation. Seems like it’s not just insects they’re dissecting these days. No one wants to discuss insects when you don’t know who might hear you.”

Simmons bit his lip, mostly feeling like never saying a word inside this bar again.

Tucker ran a hand through his black hair. His expression had turned rather grim. “Okay. That’s… something. So where the fuck did Grif go with it?”

Vic, counting his new ration cards, was willing to answer that question. “I heard him talk about the South. Something about a pick-up first.”

“ _Fuck_. Of course,” Tucker said, as if it was a bad thing.

Simmons didn’t understand, but he didn’t dare to say anything either.

Wash asked the next question. “Do you know what he is smuggling?”

“Nope! And if you ask me – which you’re doing – then I’ll say I don’t even want to know! Don’t want to mess around with no insects these days.”

“Exactly,” Wash said grimly and slipped off his chair, Simmons and Tucker following suit.

Moving away from the bar counter to return to their table, Simmons made sure to stay close to the smugglers, speaking with a lowered voice, “So he headed South. What does that mean?”

“That means we might know where he is,” Wash told him, eyes darting around to see if anyone was listening in on them. “Or where he was last. You don’t go South without stopping by the trade spot.”

“Unless you have some common sense,” Tucker muttered under his breath.

“Which we don’t,” Wash said dryly as they sat down again.

Simmons tried his best to refrain from looking at his watch, but he knew he had to hurry in order to make it back to Area 1 before curfew. He couldn’t afford more mistakes.

Even if he didn’t have anything left to lose.

“So you might be able to track him down?” he asked the smugglers, hoping to at least bring Kaikaina some good news after this. Grif had only asked him to find her a job, but, well, it couldn’t hurt to investigate the situation for Kaikaina. Just to get her out of his hair.

“’ _Might_ ’ is a very good word,” Tucker said.

“Depends on whether Grif stayed put,” Wash explained. “And if you’re willing to pay us.”

Simmons frowned, remembering how he’d given them a helmet the last time they’d needed their help. He wasn’t sure what he could give them now. “But… He’s your friend.”

“He’s our colleague,” Wash corrected him, expression never changing. “He’s _your_ friend.”

Waving him off, Simmons quickly said, “Let’s not be too drastic.”

“Look, no one leaves the Zone without getting paid,” Tucker insisted, looking straight into Simmons’ eyes.

It made it rather clear there was only one way to get what he wanted. “What do people pay you with?” Simmons finally asked, admitting defeat.

“Ration cards. Wares – pills. Guns.”

“I have guns.”

Both of the smugglers’ faces turned surprised.

Even Simmons’ mouth had fallen open in shock. He hadn’t meant to speak his thoughts out loud. It just… happened. Because it was the truth. Lowering his head, he tried to explain, “I, uhm, have access to Area 1’s weapon stash. In the supply center.”

Tucker’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding.”

“I really, really wish I was.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My chapters always turn out longer than expected... Oh well.
> 
> I know it's taking forever to get to the main plot, but it's a very big plot, alright, and we gotta be a part of all the adventure!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	10. The Offer

“If you wanna pull out, _heh_ , you can just give us the code,” Tucker said with a shrug after Simmons complained for the seventh time that afternoon.

He was fiddling nervously with his gloves, barely looking up at the smugglers while they talked. “I can’t do that,” he muttered under his breath. “You’d just misuse it.”

It was bad enough that he was helping them rob the storage. If he just gave them the code, they’d be able to do it over and over.

Simmons had to be a part of this, no matter how much he hated it.

“You’re so wrong. We’d put the weapons to very good use!”

“You’d just sell them,” Simmons sighed quietly, smacking the back of his head against the wall. “Probably to the Fireflies. Who’d then use the weapons to kill me and the other soldiers.”

Tucker was lying in the couch, and now he crossed his legs, never caring if his boots left stains on the leather. Well, it wasn’t like it wasn’t dirty before. “I though you said you aren’t a soldier any longer.”

“Right. I lost my job.” He could say that sentence now without letting the dread cause tears to appear in his eyes. He was pretty sure that was progress. “Is that supposed to be a comfort?”

“Just pointing out the facts,” Tucker said, putting his hands behind his head as he rested.

The smugglers had showed up at his door, claiming they needed a place to lay low and discuss the plan until night fell upon the city. And Simmons, being unemployed and depressed, had been at home, in his nightwear, when the smugglers had suddenly stepped into his living room, apparently having picked the lock.

He doubted they’d made it to Area 1 legally. Despite Kaikaina’s claims, they must have some secret passages. At least, Simmons really hoped they hadn’t used the same method as Kaikaina, telling the guards they were just here to visit the one and only Richard Simmons.

Washington had been quiet so far, leaning his back against the wall as he watched Simmons pace back and forth on the wooden floor. “Are you sure there’d be a skeleton crew at half past midnight?”

“That’s how they did it when I worked there,” Simmons said honestly.

“How did you get fired anyway?” Tucker asked, tilting his head towards the kitchen area. The thing about having smugglers in your apartment was how you’re always worried about some of your items going missing. Simmons had the feeling Tucker was trying to figure out if he had a stash of rations somewhere.

But Simmons had seen the latest report. He knew Area 5 were only given half-rations due to the lack of food. They were hungry. He couldn’t blame Tucker for staring.

So instead he lowered his head as he had to recall one of the most embarrassing days in his life. “I, uhm… There was a Firefly attack. You know, explosives, traitors, lots of bullets. Very usual. But, well… I don’t know. They said I didn’t fight back hard enough.” They’d also called him nasty names, but he didn’t feel like bringing that up. “And I just want to point out that it’s very hard to fight back when you’re outnumbered! That wouldn’t be fighting back! That’d be suicidal action!”

“So… what? They kicked you out ‘cause you ran away screaming from a Firefly fight?” Tucker asked, removing some dirt from beneath his nails.

Simmons lowered his head. “I didn’t scream,” he muttered bitterly.

“If you come with us tonight, you _can’t_ scream,” Wash said, voice low and serious in a manner that reminded Simmons of his father. It wasn’t exactly pleasant, neither were the ice-cold eyes.

Simmons didn’t find the courage to stare into them, so he turned his head instead. “I won’t,” he said, sounding firm. “I’m not interested in getting caught either.”

“Yeah, I’m sure your dad wouldn’t be happy to hear you’re hanging out with smugglers.”

“How do you…? What do you know about my dad?”

Tucker sent him a stare that almost looked pitiful. Understanding, at least. “Dude, your last name kinda rings a bell. We all know it’s a Simmons who’s one of the big dogs running the Zone.”

“Oh,” Simmons said, and that was all he had to say about that subject. The floor suddenly became interesting as he felt the smugglers’ stare on him.

“Do you ever attend the meetings and shit?”

“No.”

It was Wash who spoke next. “That’s okay,” he said in a low almost gentle voice, and as Simmons turned his head to meet his stare, he saw that the grey eyes had softened, turning warm for a brief moment.

Simmons coughed to clear his throat and looked at his wrist-watch. The glass had small breaks in it, but it still worked. “Four hours left,” he said, closing his eyes.

Wash nodded. “We wait.”

And so they did.

* * *

 “Now,” Washed said quietly, and then the group rushed forwards. The shadow of the building embraced them for now, hiding them as Simmons went straight for the electric lock.

Another great thing about living inside the Zone – electricity. In some places, at least. But here they didn’t spare any expenses to keep the Military’s supplies safe.

He quickly pressed in the code in the number pad, having a brief moment of relief when it flashed green. They hadn’t changed the code. Yet.

“Quick,” he said, holding the metal door open for the smugglers that quickly rushed inside.

Simmons closed the door behind them, trying not to feel like throwing up. He should relax. The smugglers were professionals. They could pull this off.

“Woaw,” Tucker said, jaw falling as he took in the sight in front of them. Shelves and shelves and shelves, all filled with crates and boxes, all filled with supplies. “Guns, food, medicine. You guys really have it all.”

“Well… We share,” Simmons said, suddenly feeling a need to defend himself and the Area.

“You know, we’re going through another month of half rations in Area 5.”

Lowering his head, Simmons said, “It’s… It’s hard getting enough food. Okay?”

“Doesn’t look like it,” Tucker said, giving a box filled with cans a pat.

Simmons didn’t know how to respond to that.

The smugglers quickly filled their bags. He watched them take all sorts of value – food, medkits, drugs, gears. Once the bags were filled, they placed them on the floor as they outfitted themselves with so many weapons that Simmons wondered how they would ever crawl through their tunnels carrying all this.

“Hurry up,” Simmons whispered, seeing Tucker trying to strap a second sniper rifle to his back. “We have to get out of here before-“

“Simmons?”

Really wishing his name wasn’t Simmons and that he could just walk away and pretend this never happened, Simmons forced himself to turn around and stare into a former teammate’s face. “Heyyyyyyyyyyy, Phil.”

“What are you doing here?” Phil asked him, and Simmons could see him narrow his eyes in the faint light of the flashlight.

Simmons laughed nervously, trying to keep his hands from shaking. “Well, I mean, certainly not helping a pair of smugglers stealing all the supplies! That would be crazy! What are _you_ doing here? This isn’t your work station.”

“I just returned from patrol. Here to stash up all the unused poison. Don’t want to sit on a needle by accident, you know.” He copied Simmons’ hollow laugh. “But seriously. You can’t be here any longer. You don’t work here. Don’t make me report you, dude.” Tilting his head, he suddenly seemed to notice the backpack some feet behind Simmons. “Oh my god, you’re stealing-“

“I’m not!”

“You are! You-“ He spun around as they all hard the pile of cans fall against the floor. The beam from Phil’s flashlight fell on Tucker and the mess in front of him. “Ohmygodyouareactuallyhelpingsmugglers-“

Phil sprung towards the door, firing his gun just as Wash tried to tackle him. The smuggler managed to jump out of the way, and as Phil ran for the door, he raised his gun-

Only to be tackled by Simmons. “You can’t shoot him,” he insisted, only earning an elbow in the stomach as Wash shoved him away. A moment later, Simmons’ mind seemed to clear, and he wondered how he’d found the courage to jump at the guy in the first place.

“Yes, I can. Because if not-“

Wash fell quiet as the alarms rang out, red lights flashing in the otherwise darkened room.

“Fuck,” Tucker swore, quickly putting on the backpack despite all the guns already strapped to his back. He was already right at Wash’ heels, ready to make a run for the exit when he remembered Simmons who was standing frozen in the middle of the hallway.

He grabbed his arm, pulling him along as they made it to the street, quickly going for the alleys before the Military showed up. They could already hear the guards shouting in the distance, and so they didn’t slow down or look over their shoulders.

Simmons’ eyes were wide in panic, and he forced himself to keep breathing, to stay alive. His stunned brain fell back to his natural instinct – to follow orders.

He couldn’t stay. Phil would have told everyone the truth by now. The Military had to be hunting him.

He had to seek safety with the smugglers.

And so he didn’t ask any questions as Wash led them through the city, into an abandoned warehouse. Tucker helped him jump through the hole in the floor, and the smugglers’ flashlights kept the tunnels lit as they slowly crawled through them.

Simmons cringed, realizing how dirty how gloves had become as he crawled on all fours. But he didn’t say anything. He bit down on his lip, trying not to cry.

It was first half a day later, when the smugglers shoved him inside an abandoned, off-limit apartment at the outskirts of Area 5 that the first tear trickled down Simmons’ freckled cheek. He quickly brushed it away before anyone could see it.

“Okay,” Wash said, putting his bag on the floor. “That went well.”

“’ _Well’_?” Simmons hissed, turning his head to glare at him. “We were discovered! They found out I was working with you!”

“True. But we got our payment.” Facing Tucker instead, Wash said to his partner, “I’ll go to the Fireflies. I know they’ll sell the guns I have to offer. Maybe they might let something slip about Grif’s deal, too. You can stay here. And look after him.”

Tucker shook his head. “I gotta find Kai. Let her know she won’t be seeing Simmons any time soon. Just so she doesn’t go around mentioning his name and such. She’s probably dumb enough to brag about fucking a dude from Area 1.”

“We didn’t fuck,” Simmons called out weakly from the couch.

“Can you stay here alone for a couple of hours?” Tucker asked him. “It’s probably best not to show your face where anyone can see it right now.”

Simmons nodded absentmindedly, turning his head to stare out of the window. Grey clouds had begun to fill the sky, signaling bad weather to come.

“We’ll be back soon,” Tucker promised and closed the door behind them. Simmons was pretty sure he heard a lock click, too.

He didn’t really care, honestly.

The moment he was left alone, he began to cry quietly.

* * *

When the door opened behind him, Simmons was still staring out of the window, watching the rain fall through the smudged glass. If his brain hadn’t felt so numb, he probably would have jumped at the sudden sound of footsteps in the otherwise quiet room.

Tucker went to stand next to him, following his stare with a raised eyebrow, but he said nothing.

It was Simmons who eventually broke the silence, speaking with a hoarse voice, as if he’d been sleepless for nights. “I just helped two smugglers steal from the Zone’s supplies,” he said, still staring straight ahead, into the wilderness outside the Zone. “What is wrong with me?”

Tucker shrugged. “I think you might just be a part of a teenage rebellion.”

With a groan, Simmons buried his face in his hands. “I fucked up,” he said, voice breaking. “I _am_ fucked up. What the fuck was I thinking…”

“I think you might just be realizing the Zone isn’t perfect,” Tucker said with another shrug. He leaned against the wall, still staring out of the window, into the darkness that was broken by the new tower’s light beams every few seconds. “I mean, the Wall is great, but… A lot of things are shitty. And there’s more important stuff out there.”

“The world out there is more messed up than it is here,” Simmons said sternly, and he set his jaw. A part of him wanted to go outside, to stand in the rain and feel the drops on his skin. It was a weird thought, illogical. He would become soaking wet and cold, and no one just stood outside on the streets any longer. It was suspicious, dangerous. There were no reasons to do so.

And yet, Simmons felt saddened at the thought of being trapped inside this small, unfamiliar apartment.

“I think some people might disagree with you.”

“Yeah?” Simmons snorted. “And what would their arguments be?” Fat raindrops slowly made their way down the glass, and his eyes followed their journey. Hunching up his shoulders, he said, “At least we are safe here.”

Tucker just shook his head. “I think you might get it if you left the Quarantine Zone one day.”

“Grif wanted to explore the world.” Simmons tried not to sound bitter but he didn’t feel ashamed when he failed. “That’s what got him killed.”

“ _Probably_ killed,” Tucker corrected him.

Simmons nodded, expression blank. “Probably killed. Idiot.” He could still remember that stupid smug expression on Grif’s face when he’d come up with a plan, the way he’d sometimes walked straight into danger because he was too dumb to realize it. Simmons bit his lip. “But at least you two are going to find out what happened to him. I definitely paid you.”

“Yeah, you did. But… I think you should come with us?”

His suggestion engulfed the room in silence for three long seconds.

“What?” Simmons asked, eyes widened in disbelief at the thought. He was bad enough at surviving inside the Zone. And he’d been past the Wall before, and it hadn’t exactly gone well. It was actually the cause of all his problems right now.

But Tucker seemed so sure of himself, eyes gleaming as he explained his thoughts. “Look, we pissed off the Military. Not in the ‘I used fake ration cards because I’m about to starve’ kind of way, but in the ‘I’m the boss’ son and I just betrayed you all right under your noses’ kind of way. They’re gonna be looking for you. Probably do raids in all the Areas. And when we leave, there’ll be no one in Area 5 willing to stick out their neck for you. Maybe Kai, but even if you hid at her place, they’d probably find you and that’d just mark her as complicit. We can’t have that.”

They couldn’t. Grif’s (maybe last) request had been for Simmons to look after his sister. Simmons couldn’t be cause of Kai’s arrest. He felt bad enough about himself already, he just couldn’t afford that on his consciousness.

But still…

“I can’t go with you!” he insisted, and he would have yelled had he not remembered they were supposed to be hiding.

“Why not?” Tucker asked him, and for some reason an immediate excuse wasn’t ready on Simmons’ tongue.

His mouth was open, ready to defend himself, but it felt like the words slipped apart inside his brain. “Because it’s- It’s outside the Zone!” he finally stuttered, crossing his arms.

Tucker just rolled his eyes at him. “That’s the whole point! If you ask me, you’ll have a better chance at surviving out there than here.”

“But… I’m very bad at survival.”

The fact that he was standing here, in an off-limit building, with smugglers as his company, should be the evidence of how badly Simmons was doing.

But Tucker waved that off, sending him a big grin. Grins. “Look, you earned us a shit load of cash tonight. I’d argue it also pays for an escort until we reach Church’s place. I’m sure you can hang out there until we figure out what to do. I mean, he’ll probably hate your ass, but at least you’re gonna be the one he yells at for a while. Saves me the headache.”

Simmons’ mouth fell open again, wondering who this Church was, if it was an actual church, if it was far away from here, if they would even make it all that way, if this was a good idea, if he’d lost his mind.

“It’s up to you,” Tucker said. “But you can’t stay here.”

* * *

Wash returned later that day, just when the sun was about to set again. He had a gun strapped to his back, and Simmons recognized it as military equipment. He gave Simmons a short greeting in the shape of a nod before he pulled Tucker aside to the two smugglers could talk privately.

At this point Simmons had curled up in the couch, at times nodding off to the sound of the rain against the window. When a hand shook his shoulder, his eyes sprung open.

“So,” Tucker told him, letting him rub the sleep out of his eyes. “We’re about to leave the Zone. You can come with us, if you want to.”

“Do you…?” Simmons trailed off, running a hand down his face. “Is there any place out there where I can… Where I can stay? You mentioned this Church-”

“Well, it’s either him or- Well, Sarge usually isn’t the guy to turn people away. You could probably stay there.”

“Where’s-? Who’s-?”

“We can discuss that on the road,” Wash cut him off, rather rudely. He was the one to stare out of the window now, eyes following the light beams in the distance. “We have to travel now, to get out of the outskirts before the sun rises.”

When Simmons left the couch to take some unsure steps towards the smuggler, Wash seemed to take it as a sign of acceptance, and after a shared glance with Tucker, he began to shove a bookshelf aside to show a hidden room behind it.

“There’s a tunnel down here,” Tucker explained, kicking a wooden board on the floor. Among the stains and cracked walls, the cover-up wasn’t that suspicious at first site. “And we keep our most important stuff down there. We can’t exactly carry weapons around the Areas without the soldiers firing first.”

“Makes sense,” Simmons muttered quietly. He watched as the smugglers pulled the board aside, revealing the ladder leading into darkness beneath.

When Wash has disappeared into the blackness and Tucker was lowering himself down, he looked up at Simmons, asking, “So, you coming?”

“…Yeah.”

Step by step, Simmons went all the way down.

Just as his feet were about to hit the ground, a weak light appeared, just enough to illuminate what turned out to be a cellar. Simmons turned his head to see Wash with a lamp in his hand, and the smuggler guided their way to the back of the room where he shoved aside some crates to reveal three backpacks.

“There’s one for you,” the smuggler told Simmons as he handed him the lightest one. Simmons looked inside to find a flashlight and a few ration bars, as well as an extra shirt for colder weather and a roll of bandages.

“Thank you,” he said, honestly surprised at the gift. But he supposed this was the basic survival kit, as they were counting on keeping him alive.

“There’s this as well,” Wash said and he reached out to hand him a pistol. “We figured you didn’t have any weapons on you.”

“I- yes.”

“We got to find you something more quiet,” Tucker said as he strapped on his own backpack. “A bat or branch. But, no offense, I’m not sure if you can crush skulls with those arms.”

“What’s wrong with my arms?”

“I’m just saying you’re skinny for a guy in Area 1,” Tucker said, fastening a small flashlight to his bag-strap.

Simmons narrowed his eyes. “Well, if you’re comparing me to Grif…”

“Good point.” Turning his head, Tucker faced his partner. “Hey, Wash, c’mon. I know you have a knife to spare.”

The smuggler didn’t reply. The only thing that left his mouth was a small huff, but he opened his bag nonetheless.

“A knife?” Simmons asked.

Tucker nodded, grinning. “This guy has wayyy too many. I don’t know where he keeps them. Maybe up his ass.”

“That would be uncomfortable,” Wash replied dryly but there was a smile on his lips and a soft look in his eyes directed at Tucker that made it clear to Simmons that the two of them had been partners for a long time.

“You’re going to have to let me strip you one day.”

“Not today, Tucker.”

“I need to know where they are! Like, in your boots? Or strapped to your thigh? How come I don’t know this?!”

Wash just shook his head, still smiling to himself as he began to load his guns with practiced ease in the darkened room.

Meanwhile, Tucker went to reach for something behind the shelf. “Oh well. Who needs small daggers when you can have a bigger and longer sword? That wasn’t a metaphor by the way, though it totally could have worked as one, bow-chicka-bow-wow.”

Simmons’ jaw dropped. “…What is that?”

In the corner, Wash sighed loudly enough for the two of them to hear.

Tucker held up a hand to stop any complaints from being said out loud. “This,” he said, creating a dramatic pause, “is my sword.”

He pulled the blade of its sheath, letting it glint in the light of their flashlights.

“Your sword?” Simmons said numbly, blinking twice as he tried to understand what was going on.

Tucker just smiled brightly, fastening his weapon to his belt. “Yep.”

“And just how did you get your hands on a sword in the middle of an apocalypse,” Simmons asked, keeping a certain distance between them as he followed Tucker to the other end of the room, keeping his eyes on the blade that was thankfully sheathed.

“Let me tell you my tale of knighthood-“

But before he could begin that speech – and his mouth was already wide open – Wash cut in, “He fell through a hole.”

“Wash, don’t ruin this for me!”

“We were scavenging the old museum when the floor collapsed,” Wash explained further, gaining eye-contact with Simmons. The story was oddly calming – at least, it was the most logical explanation to a very strange sight.

Tucker rolled his eyes, adjusting the sweet, giving it a few pats. “Okay, maybe the tale isn’t that grand, but this beauty makes up for it.”

Simmons tilted his head, watching it with narrowed eyes. “But isn’t it quite useless in a fight?”

“What’s really useless is firing a gun in a Clicker area,” Tucker replied with a shrug. “My sword can take down Infected without making too much noise. I admit, it was pretty useless in the beginning before we sharpened the edges, but now it’s given me the title as Knight of Doom.”

“No one calls you that,” Wash shouted form the corner.

“I’m just saying the sight of this wonder is keeping the raiders at bay!”

“I’d argue we’re attacked more often now because those stupid enough to rush us will now scream ‘I want that sword’ the moment they see it.”

“Well, now we have a third man to fight back,” Tucker said, giving Simmons a pat on the back heavy enough to send him stumbling forwards.

When Simmons looked up, he saw Wash was extending a hand towards him, helping him regain his stance. “Can you handle yourself with a gun?” he asked him.

Simmons lowered his glance while brushing some dust off his pants. “I’m… you know… _average_.”

“Well, we know you ran away screaming from a Firefly attack but you have too much consciousness to put down some infected folks,” Tucker said and his tone made it almost sound like a compliment. “I guess it doesn’t matter. You have paid for escort. ‘sides, learning by doing, right, Wash?”

“…Right.”

Then they led him farther down the tunnel, rucksacks on their backs and loaded weapons ready. Their flashlights showed them the way, until they reached the ladder that led them upwards, outside the Zone.

A sense of déjà vu hit him, when he finally climbed the last step on the later and pulled himself onto the ground. While the smugglers hit the tunnel entrance, Simmons stepped into the ditch and turned his head to watch the great Wall tower above him to his right.

He was outside again.

It was a strange feeling, really, to know that Grif had once crawled through the tunnel and appeared inside the Zone, and now Simmons had gone through the same tunnel to enter the wilderness as a wanted man.

This was not how Simmons had expected life to turn out.

But, well, back when he was a small kid, he’d never imagined the world to turn out like this.

No one had seen it coming.

And when they’d figured out how the infection worked, it was too late.

Almost sixteen years later and they still hadn’t found a cure.

“And he didn’t pass out from the shock!” Tucker said cheerfully as the two smugglers came to stand behind Simmons. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re gonna make it through the entire trip!”

“Is that supposed to be encouragement?” Simmons asked him dryly as they all began make their way away from Wall, towards the ruins in the distance that would have shield them from the military patrols.

“Well, first we have to make through the outskirts without getting shot by the military,” Wash reminded them dryly. “ _And_ then we have to make it through the city before we reach the road-“

“Dude, don’t scare the guy,” Tucker said. “It’s not like we’ve died out here before.”

As they began to climb up from the muddy ditch, Simmons took a moment to close his eyes and sigh. When he opened them again, he caught the sight of the lights in the distance, signaling Military being active.

“In an ideal world, I’d be with them,” he muttered as the smugglers showed him how to hide from the tower’s beams.

“How’s that ideal?” Tucker asked him with a snort.

“…I don’t know.”

“An ideal world would be without the infection,” Wash said, and the rest of the group fell quiet.

They were silent as they slowly made their way through the outskirts, the smugglers leading him through pipes and broken buildings as they stayed out of Military’s sight.

The feeling of danger and fear and repulsion at the broken surroundings was oddly familiar, but somehow it felt more survivable than the last time he’d been stuck outside the Wall. Which was strange – he’d almost been killed back then. He should be traumatized for life.

But right now, his entire life had changed in a couple of days, and it just left him feeling numb.

And maybe it was that numbness that saved him when they finally reached the city, and they climbed over a truck blocking the street, only to discover an eating Runner on the other side.

But his numb lips couldn’t scream, and that made sure the Infected was still distracted when Tucker stabbed its head.

The rest of the journey went like that: Simmons keeping his mouth shut to stay alive, and the smugglers dealing with the Infected before they could tear them apart.

* * *

It was four days later that Simmons had to fire his gun.

They would sleep in what shelter they could find, whether it was an old car or abandoned building. After Simmons kept complaining about the filthy surfaces they were forced to rest their bodies on, Wash let him have their thin blanket to get him to shut up.

Simmons accepted it gratefully, and whenever he curled up on it, he kept his eyes shut, trying to ignore all the noises- the hisses in the distance, the wind blowing through broken windows, the snores of his new teammates – and he tried to pretend that he was back in his apartment in his soft bed.

And then, this night, he woke up to what he was sure was the most terrifying noise in the world.

Clicking.

“ _Clickers_ ,” Tucker whispered in alarm. Before Simmons had even pushed himself off the ground, the smugglers had already hidden themselves behind a kitchen counter. A moment later the Clicker appeared in the doorway, limbs flailing around as it tried to find a victim.

Wash made a signal for Simmons to stay quiet, and the smuggles slowly moved around the room as if searching for something-

When the cup smashed against the northern wall, the Clicker immediately launched towards the sound. The moment its bare feet stepped on the broken porcelain, Tucker moved forward to cleave the disfigured face in half.

He had just pulled back his sword, now covered in blood and broken pieces of fungus, when the shot ran out.

Both of the smugglers turned their head to look at Simmons who was still holding the gun, hands shaking as he watched the Runner squirm in death throes.

Tucker glared at him. “Dude, why did you-?!”

He was cut off by another gun going off – this time by Wash who was steadily shooting at the incoming horde of Runners trying to make their way inside the abandoned house. “Upstairs,” he said, eyes never moving from his target.

Without questioning his tactic, both Simmons and Tucker followed orders, slowly retreating while trying to keep the danger at bay.

Realizing there was no reason to go with stealth tactics, Tucker sheathed his sword to use his gun instead.

Wash faced most of the Infected as they slowly made backed up the stairs, but on the second floor they all took a stance in the middle of the floor, shooting at whatever trying to make its way up to them.

Simmons realized with horror he was running out of bullets.

“What are we gonna do?” he yelled, trying to be heard through the all the snarling and hisses and moaning.

He couldn’t help but scream when a Runner fell only a few inches from his feet.

“Stay back!” Wash yelled, throwing- _something_ at the end of the staircase.

Simmons barely had the time to feel an arm pushing him down before the small object exploded.

Screams filled the room, as well as the sound of metal digging into the wooden walls.

When the smoke cleared, Simmons blinked before watching the carnage – Infected all over the floor, flesh torn, guts spilling, screws and nails embedded everywhere.

“What. The fuck. Is that?”

“Long story,” Tucker sighed, kicking a bit of flesh that had landed near his boot.

“Stay quiet,” Wash hissed at them. “Listen.”

They did.

“It’s quiet,” Simmons said, and they all let out a sigh of relief. No snarling, no clicking. They’d dealt with all of them. Letting himself fall back against a worn couch, Simmons rested a hand against his face. “I hate Infected,” he muttered under his breath. This journey would have been much quicker, had they not been forced to fight for their life every day.

“Infected aren’t the biggest problem,” Tucker said to his surprise.

“Yeah, right,” Simmons snorted, only to raise an eyebrow as he realized he was being serious. “Wait, really?!”

“Believe it or not, humans tend to be more bloodthirsty.”

Simmons tried not to think too much of that dark statement, and to distract his thoughts, he wondered how they’d ended up ambushed instead. “How did they find us?” he asked his new teammates. “…Did you snore again-?”

“I think I’ve found out why,” Wash said, looking out of a window. As the others stood next to him and followed his stare, they saw the half-eaten dog in the middle of the street, right next to door leading to their shelter.

“Remember the time with the raccoon?” Tucker said, nudging Wash with his elbow. “Pretty sure that beast was more scary then the Infected following it. I’m pretty sure it had rabies. Urgh.”

“The outside sucks,” Simmons muttered in despair.

“Well, at least we’ll be at Church soon,” Tucker said. “It’s not like the guy is going to throw you a welcome party, but at least his place should be safe.” He paused, a frown growing on his face. “Well, unless Carolina is there. She might want to punch your face.”

“Who’s Carolina?” Simmons asked him and the second question quickly came: “And why would she want to punch me in the face?!”

“It’s not that there’s anything wrong with _your_ face,” Tucker promised him. “It’s just that Carolina isn’t a fan of strangers.”

Still standing near the window, Wash raised a finger, cutting in: “That’s not really the truth.”

Tucker rolled his eyes at him, kneeling down next to one of the more intact bodies to search for any supplies. “C’mon,” he said. “She totally freaked out the first time she saw Grif.”

“Yes, but-“

“But what?” Tucker asked, turning his head towards his partner.

For a moment Wash’ mouth was open but then he closed it, obviously changing his mind. He twisted his body to look out of the window again, letting the morning sun fall on his face. “Nothing,” he then said briefly.

“Are we at least getting close to this Church person?” Simmons sighed and he walked back towards the couch again, ready to rest for a moment and stare out of the other window, pretending to be enjoying the view while truly looking out for more danger.

That paranoia never disappeared, feeling like you could be attacked at every moment – because out here, outside the wall, that was the truth.

“Yeah, we should be there within a day. His place is to the West of this city. He’s a loner like that, in the middle of the forest.”

“…Did you say ‘to the West’’?

Tucker looked up at him. “…Yes?”

“Like, the _West_ West of here?”

“… I think that’s what ‘West’ means. Why?”

Simmons pointed out of the broken window, making sure they all saw the charred ruins in the distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally got this chapter done. It took way too long, but school has started and I've begun my new job, so life has been busy. Oh, and I'm getting a kitty in a few weeks! Things aren't calm for sure!
> 
> Also, I'm doing a bad things happen bingo! More info at my tumblr, if ya wanna prompt me!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	11. The Garage

“Well… That’s the end of Blue Base,” Tucker said half-heartedly as he kicked away another piece of burned furniture. The flames had died a long time ago, leaving behind a smell of smoke and a thick layer of ash.

Simmons watched the skeleton ruins that had remained. “Do you think they were attacked?” he asked. He remembered how the buildings had looked after a Firefly bomb, the soot on the bricks and how meat had burned away from human bones.

“That or Caboose tried to bake,” Tucker snorted, and Simmons once again had to wonder who exactly this Caboose was.

But he decided that wasn’t the question he needed to ask right now. “Maybe Fireflies?”

“I doubt that.”

“But… destroying things is what they do.”

“That’s not exactly what they do.” With his arms filled with scorched cans that had survived the ordeal, Wash entered the scene. “The Fireflies appeared to fight against an oppressive military. And when more joined the cause they expanded their goals – gathering survivors, setting up labs to find a cure-“

The tone of defense in his voice wasn’t missed by anyone, but Simmons chose not to comment on it.

“Dude, he didn’t ask for a history lesson,” Tucker said, cutting him off short.

“I’m just saying that they Fireflies aren’t what the Military claims they are.” He froze, eyes narrowing as he considered his own words. “Not that it makes them the good guys.”

The change in the mood was slight but noticeable and they all turned around, continuing their search for supplies or bodies. So far, there’d been none of the latter – a relief to them all.

“Found something,” Tucker said, and Simmons saw the flash of urgency on Wash’ expression as they both turned to what had once been a living room area.

The wall was mostly intact, a few places turned black from the flames. But in the middle of it, with big black letters, made with rushed strokes of a brush.

Go red message.

**_~~GO~~ _ ** **_FUCK RED_ **

“Well, they’re alive,” Tucker sighed, head tilted as he read the message. “What a disappointment.”

“What does it mean?” Simmons asked, still trying to understand if Red was a place or a person. And why the one writing the message had suddenly decided to hate the color.

“They’re at Sarge’s,” Tucker answered with a shrug.

“You’ve mentioned him before.”

“Well, this is to your advantage, actually. He’s the stop after this,” Wash told him, reminding him of where they were headed for Simmons’ mission. “Grif usually rest up there… Though it’s not because he claims to be a fan of the garage.”

Simmons frowned, worries and confusion only growing stronger. Tucker just winked at him. “You’ll see.”

“Sarge isn’t… vocally happy about Grif.” Wash sighed, though some of the cold had left his eyes since discovering the message on the wall. As he looked up at Simmons, they almost seemed friendly.  “Though I think you’ll like him.”

“Me?” Simmons might have taken that as a compliment – had he known who this Sarge was. “Why?”

Wash scratched the back of his neck. “Sarge is… Well, he is like you.”

“Like me?”

“Well, he’s an idiot,” Tucker added from the corner, where he’d just closed his backpack after securing the last supplies.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“He used to be in the military,” Wash interrupted them before an argument could begin. He nodded towards Simmons. “Like you.”

His blue eyes lit up at the thought. Though it hurt to remember that his life in the military was a thing of the past now, at least he wouldn’t be alone. It would be good to talk with someone with a status again, someone who knew rules and orders and how to appreciate the Zone, unlike the smugglers. He appreciated their help, of course, but he couldn’t help but get defensive whenever they compared the Military with prison guards.

He knew things weren’t perfect, but at least it was better than the alternative. The smugglers hadn’t seemed to understand that yet.

“But are we really sure about that?” Tucker snorted as they stepped outside to breathe in fresh air. “I mean, the man spits nonsense at every other breath.”

Wash rolled his eyes. “Since he claims his first name is Sergeant, I got a hunch that he might be telling the truth.”

He walked further down the street, and with a swift jump, he stepped onto one of the long-abandoned cars, getting a clearer view of the horizon. Tucker followed suit, a few steps behind him. “…You know that’s not his first name, right?” he said.

“Of course. But you can’t say he isn’t proficient.”

Simmons didn’t say anything as he stood behind them, adjusting his gloves as they discussed what to do next.

The sun was sinking quickly, and their burned down surroundings didn’t prove much of a shelter.

“There’s a truck, further down the road,” Wash said, pointing in the direction. “If we sleep there tonight, we can reach Merope Village tomorrow. Moving with a quick pace from there, we can reach the garage before sunset.”

Simmons sighed and decided it was not the time to complain about the blisters on his foot, despite their increasing numbers.

* * *

 

The truck was less than an hour’s journey away, and the trip would have been easy, had it not been for the wild dogs that chased Simmons up a tree.

Wash killed them with a few bullets, and while Simmons brushed off his pants to regain some dignity, Tucker went hunting.

Simmons had come to know that food on the road usually meant canned food years after the expiration date or whatever vermin or small animals they could catch. Still, he couldn’t help but sigh as they gathered around the fire to eat roasted rats.

 “I hate the country,” he muttered, looking at the tear in his pants. These dogs were nothing like the Labrador he’d had before the outbreak, back when he was just a stupid kid.

“Less infected though,” Tucker pointed out after swallowing a gulp of meat.

Raising an eyebrow, Simmons realized he was right. The last couple of days had been noticeably calmer than when they’d made their way through the big city. Sure, the wildlife had still been trying to kill them, but it had been nice not to have infected at their heels every moment.

It made sense, of course. It was only logical that a lower population meant less victims to the infection. Simmons remembered how people had flocked to the big cities in the beginning, trying to stay away from the monsters while getting within the established Military Zones.

It’d been a hard task. Not many had made it.

“But a bigger chance of raiders,” Wash added to the conversation, gun resting in his lap.

“But that doesn’t happen often,” Simmons asked, skin crawling at the thought. He looked at his fellow travelers. “Right?”

Tucker shook his head. “Infected are actually easier to deal with.”

“Huh?”

“The infected just want to eat,” Wash said to explain. “It’s their instinct. People tend to be crueler.”

“But… you are all survivors out here?” he said, frowning. In the Zone, everyone had their duty to ensure the safety of everybody. That’s why the Military existed, why outside duty was a thing, why you had to kill the infected citizens. It didn’t always feel fair but it was necessary, so they could protect each other in the shared home that was the Quarantine Zone.

“Dude, we don’t hold hand and share the supplies. It’s…” Tucker trailed off, frowning. “I mean there are groups. Safety in numbers and all that. But when supplies run low… You can’t have too many groups in one area.”

Simmons grimaced, understanding what wasn’t said. He could picture it well enough. His expression only grew more grim as he forced himself to take a bite of his rat.

“Dude, stop making that face,” Tucker scolded him. “My kid has eaten worse with no complaining.”

Simmons almost choked twice on his rat. “Your kid?”

Tucker’s mouth fell upon, the slight blush revealing that he was aware of his mistake. Lowering his glance, he reached up to rub the back of his neck. “Yeah, uh. Junior. My kid. He, uhm, lives in Area 1.”

“So that’s why you were at the school,” Simmons said, snapping his fingers. He’d wondered about that for a while now, but he hadn’t quite imagined this would be the answer. Though, it didn’t make it less weird that Tucker had found his way to Area 1. All the neighbors that Simmons had had would never have hung out with a smuggler. “Wait, how did you…?”

“Well, I banged a girl.”

“That’s usually how it works,” Wash commented dryly, moving closer to the fire.

“So… he doesn’t live with you?”

“Obviously,” Tucker snorted. Though his expression had turned more serious, with a clear look of longing haunting his eyes, his tone stayed friendly as he told Simmons more about himself. “Nah, he lives with his grandparents. Spends most of the time at the school, though. Not like people have a lot of time to raise kids these days.”

Simmons took another bite of his dinner, his tongue numb to the taste by now. “And the mom?”

“Dead.”

The entire group shifted. Wash looked away, Simmons poked the fire, and Tucker moved to place his sword in his lap.

“Oh.”

“Well, we weren’t exactly on good terms. Not that she deserved that flu or anything. But… Junior made it. So there’s that.” He moved a cloth down the blade, removing grime from it. “We didn’t live together. First found out afterwards.”

“Oh,” Simmons said again. He seemed to have run out of words.

Suddenly a smug grin split Tucker’s face, as if he’d remembered something. “I should probably mention her last name was Sangheili?”

“ _What_?!” Simmons gasped, spitting out pieces of rat meat.

“It was a one-night stand, okay? We didn’t really see the whole baby-thing coming.”

“You probably should have,” Wash snorted, eyes gleaming in a teasing glare.

Tucker stuck out his tongue at him. “Hey, condoms are rare now, okay?”

“You and… the Sangheili family?” Simmons said the words slowly, still trying to make sense of it. It was one of the most wealthy families in Area 1, their last name would echo everywhere. Even his father had great respect of them, with several Sangheilis being officers in the army.

He couldn’t quite picture any of them with Tucker.

“Parents-in-law are never great, but these guys are…” He grimaced darkly. “They take care of Junior. But they don’t really want me around.”

“Understandable.” Realizing what he’d just said, Simmons widened his eyes and held up his hand. “I just mean… You’re a smuggler.”

“That I am,” Tucker agreed, nodding. “Look, the only reason I let them take care of him is because Area 1 is safe. I don’t even have my own place in the Slum, and it’s not like I can drag him around on these trips. So I save up, work. We’ll find somewhere safe one day. When I can afford it.”

“In the Zone?”

“Don’t really have anywhere else to go for now,” Tucker said and sheathed his sword again. “Zone still sucks, though.”

“It’s…”

“You’ve taken it well,” Wash interrupted them again before Simmons could finish his sentence. In the light of the flames, his eyes seemed friendlier than usual. “Leaving it.”

Tucker nodded, inching closer to his partner as they moved to add fuel to the fire. “Right. I’d expected you to have a mental breakdown by now.”

“I don’t like rats,” Simmons said thickly, looking down at his excuse of a meal.

“Dude, what do you think they gave us in the rations anyway?”

“At least they try to make it look good,” he muttered under his breath. Compared to this, he would die to get another ration from the Zone. It was impossible not to miss the dry crackers and the mysterious stew after this trip.

“That’s the ideal, right?” Tucker said, rolling his eyes. “Taking something shitty and trying to pretend it’s not. Like, we all know this world sucks.”

“The children don’t,” Simmons said, trying not to sound envious. “I suppose. Well… They don’t know anything else.”

“True.” Tucker leaned closer to poke the fire, letting the shadows dance on his dark face. “Sucks to remember a time without infected.”

It hurt when he thought too much about the old world. It was like in the beginning, back when his mother had just died. That mourning process of having lost someone. It felt like that, like a pang in his chest.

But the old world wouldn’t come back, no matter how much he missed it. Simmons in haled deeply. “My, uh, job in the Zone. It sucked. And… I got fired. And the next step…. It would have been worse. So this… I hate rats. But it’s better than…”

He trailed off, unable to confess more. He still remembered how cold the syringe had felt in his hand, how the infected victims had screamed for him to have mercy.

He’d felt so dirty.

Even now, literally covered in dirt, it was better than that.

A heavy hand landed on his shoulder. “You get used to it,” Wash said and gave him another of his rare smiles.

* * *

They reached the garage two days later, and the first thing they saw was a fence. It wasn’t that special – an ordinary fence with barbed wires on top of it to keep out intruders.

Oh, and then there were the signs.

**_SUCK IT BLUE_ **

**_THE WARNING SHOT IS AIMED AT YOUR HEAD_ **

**_DANGER FOR STRANGER(S)_ **

**_YOU SAY ‘READY TO LOOT’  
I SAY ‘READY TO SHOOT’_ **

**_INTRUDERS WILL BE SHOT  
SURVIVORS WILL BE SHOT AGAIN_ **

**_IF YOU CAN READ THIS  
YOU ARE IN RANGE_ **

Simmons gulped but then watched as the smugglers didn’t flinch as they moved closer. Wordlessly they pushed a trash container away from a small shed, towards the fence, allowing them to jump over it. Wash used his jacket to cover the wire as Simmons fumbled his way after them.

It was first when they found themselves at the end of an alley that the smugglers suddenly seemed alert, drawing their weapons as they cautiously peeked around the corner.

“Okay,” Wash said, facing Simmons. “Let us go first.”

“Why?” he asked, dreading the answer.

“Sarge is… He’s secured the place.”

Suddenly glancing down at his own two feet in worry, Simmons gulped. “Traps? How is… How does that work?”

“Usually with a boom,” Tucker snorted as he tightened his grip on his sword, signaling for Simmons to follow him.

“Oh god.”

“That’s Sarge for you,” Tucker just said, and then Wash hissed for them to be quiet as they slowly moved further into the city.

It reminded Simmons of the previous cities they’d passed through to get here: abandoned, windows broken, walls overgrown. Furniture and belongings had been left behind as people had left in a hurry when military had ordered the place evacuated many years ago.

Yet, despite the quiet, Simmons couldn’t help but feel as if he was being watched. Maybe it was just pure paranoia from the way the smugglers were acting, small quick steps while constantly looking over their shoulder. A few times they pointed at a wire across the alley, guiding Simmons to step over it carefully.

Simmons was listening too, waiting for any telltale signs of infected: growling, snarling.

And when he finally heard something, he could only frown in confusion. “Do you… hear that?”

“Hear what?” Tucker asked while checking the brick wall for any attached strings.

“The song… Like… polka.”

The two smugglers shared a glance. “Oh no.”

“What it is?”

“Freckles,” Wash said, voice filled with horror. Giving Tucker a shove in the back, he gestured for them all the move down the street. “Run!”

Simmons obeyed the order without thinking too much of it. This trip had taught him that the smugglers knew the most about surviving infected and wildlife and unfriendly survivors. Listening to them had kept him alive so far.

But he couldn’t help but wonder… “What is a Freckles?” he called out with burning lungs.

“A freak of nature!”

“It’s Sarge’s experiment,” Wash explained, looking over his shoulder as the noise grew louder. “And it tends to work a bit too well.”

It wasn’t just the polka that could be heard – now it was followed by groans and snarls, and oh god…

Turning around, Simmons saw it appear from an alley. He couldn’t quite recognize it at first. It was a piece of machinery, definitely, small, barely tall enough to reach his knees. But it was fast. And it was making a buzzing noise – that became mixed with the polka coming from radio strapped on top of it and the growl from the chain saws tied to its sides.

It was a lawn mower, he realized, one of the automatic ones. Heavily upgraded from the looks of it.

“Can’t you shoot it or something?”

“Dude, it’s not Freckles we are running from.”

The most important thing to notice was the large hoard of infected running after it, following the noise.

Simmons screamed at the sight. “ _Ohmygodohmygodohmygod_.”

It didn’t help that the street was ending with a blockade, wired fence blocking their path once again. But before Simmons could panic about the fact, Wash had boosted Tucker up to reach the top of an abandoned school bus.

“Up!” he barked at Simmons who quickly stepped on his spread palms, accepting Tucker’s hand as he pulled him up the rest of the way. Wash joined them quickly afterwards, jumping before needing Tucker’s help too.

A second later, they were surrounded.

The infected were snarling, screaming as they clawed at the vehicle, but most of them were focused on the lawn mower that kept playing the stupid music. Simmons watched in amazement as it began to spin around, chain saw digging into the flesh of the closest infected.

They snarled as they fell over, limbs giving out, allowing space for the next infected to try to claim their prey.

It was almost amusing to watch, had it not been that disturbing.

But the machine was efficient, and minutes later all the infected were lying on the ground, moaning as they clawed their way forward. Simmons’ stomach twisted as he saw how the blood was spreading beneath the bodies.

The smugglers jumped down first, with Tucker walking around to deal with the infected that were still alive, impaling their skulls with his sword for a quick and silent death.

It took a while before Simmons dared to follow them, his hands still shaking as he tried to climb down, resulting in him falling the rest of the way.

The machine was still spinning around nearby, with a sort of growl coming from it. Simmons tilted his head as he watched it closely, realizing it had a torn limb stuck in saws.

Wash must have noticed it too as he slowly approached it. “Freckles. Sit.”

Tucker just shook his head. “I wouldn’t…”

The moment Wash managed to pull out the half-rotten foot, the music began to play again. Loudly. As if it was angry.

“Oh fuck!” Tucker yelled, watching in worry how Wash barely managed to jump back in time to avoid its blades as it spun around.

Simmons was already making a beeline for the bus again, trying his best to crawl up by himself this time.

“Freckles! Freckles!”

They all froze at the voice coming from behind the blockade. A moment later, a head peeked over the fence.

“Caboose!” Tucker exclaimed, grinning again.

“Tucker!” the brown-haired man yelled back. Simmons had never seen a smile that big before. But it only lasted a second – then it was replaced with a frown as the man tilted his head. “You’re not Freckles.”

“And thank fuck for that.”

“Freckles,” the man ordered, yelling as if it was a dog. “Freckles, sit.”

Simmons wasn’t quite sure if the machine heard the command. Something happened for sure – the machine suddenly turned in the opposite reaction and began to move away, in a slower pace this time with the polka music still being played.

It didn’t exactly sit. But at least it was no longer a threat.

“Good boy, Freckles!” the man said, smiling again. His eyes landed on Simmons, and his expression was so friendly that it felt strange – Simmons hadn’t met people this open to strangers before.

“Caboose,” Wash said, expression softer than usual. “What are you doing out here?”

“Ah, you know. Just walking Freckles.” Pointing at the smuggler, he asked, “What are you doing here, Agent Washingtub?”

But the smuggler never had the chance to answer him, as Tucker asked a question instead: “What happened to Blue Base, Caboose?”

“It got hot.”

* * *

“He burned the piece of shit hole to the ground,” the other man, Church said, as they made it to the other side of the barricade. Apparently they had been waiting for them, being alerted by the noise.

“The cake got crispy,” Caboose said, nodding.

Church narrowed his blue eyes, looking like he might punch his teammate. “Fucking…” he said, but trailed off before he could finish his sentence. It looked as if he forced himself to inhale deeply before talking to them again. “So now we’re here. In Red Base. Just great.” He turned his head to glare at Simmons, nodding towards him as he told Tucker, “You got a stalker, by the way.”

“Oh, that’s our cargo.”

Simmons lifted his hand weakly as a greeting but it was ignored by Church who instead spat: “Who the fuck hired you to transport him?”

“Well. He did.”

Church sighed, pressing his palm against his face. “Why do I sense a long and tragic backstory-“

“He’s just trying to find Grif,” Tucker said, shrugging. “I guess that’s pretty tragic. I mean, he _paid_ us to find Grif of all people. That’s kinda sad.”

Simmons had opened his mouth but he didn’t quite know what to say. When Church turned to face him again, he found himself backing a step away from the black-haired man. “So, what did Grif do to you? Rob you? Trick you?”

“Nah, they’re in love.”

Church dropped his jaw. “What?!”

“That’s not true!” Simmons said, stomping a foot against the ground as he glared at Tucker. “It’d- No! _Who said that_?!” He shook his head, over and over. “I just owe him. It’s- I’m finding him for Kai!”

Church licked his lip, as if considering what to do with this information. But then he crossed his arms, pale face unchanging as he told Simmons: ”Well, he was here some weeks ago. At least, Sarge was still complaining when we arrived.”

“Where’s Carolina?” Wash asked, appearing after having hidden the ladder behind a building.

“Out,” Church said briefly. “Doing stuff.”

Catching his glance, Wash rounded his lips. “Oh.” They both looked away, ending the conversation there.

Tucker just huffed at the sight, rolling his eyes. “Well, no one certainly picked up on that being a vague codesign for secret, important stuff-“

“Ah, what vague codesign?” Caboose asked, looking at each and every one of them.

“Exactly,” Tucker said, crossing his arms to match Church’s position.

Simmons cleared his throat, gaining their attention. While Wash hadn’t told him much about himself, he had realized the fact that the smuggler had been involved with Firefly activity.

And Simmons was painfully aware that it was best to stay away from any Firefly-related subject. “So…” he asked instead. “Do you know where Grif-“

“Who curses in my home?!”

Simmons jumped as a new voice cut him off. He turned his head to see that it belonged to an armed man, holding a shotgun aimed at Simmons’ head. His eyes were narrowed, and they matched the color of his grey, wild beard. His shirt, however, was a bright red color.

Simmons had figured out who it was even before Wash said it out loud.

“Sarge.”

“Blue,” the man growled, finger staying on the trigger.

Caboose, ignored the weapon pointing in their direction, waved happily. “Hello,” he said. “I’m Blue.”

Then the stares landed on Simmons who raised his hand half-heartedly. “I’m… not?”

“Hi, Not,” Caboose said.

“No, I’m-“

He was cut off by the explosion on the other side of the fence. By instinct, he dove to the ground, hands covering his head. When he dared to look through his fingers, he saw that Wash had extended a hand towards him, helping him stand up.

“We should probably go somewhere safe,” he said, glaring at Sarge.

The older man finally lowered his weapon, moving his shoulder as he gestured for them to follow him around the nearest building. “Watch your left,” he said as they stepped into an empty warehouse.

“That means watch the right,” Tucker said, leaning close to Simmons.

“But why-“

A can exploded a second later, resulting in three screwdrivers digging into the wall behind them.

“Oops!” Sarge said gleefully as he marched forward unfaced. “I surely hope no Blues get hurt! Hehehe.”

* * *

 

“Looopez! We’re hoooome,” Sarge yelled the moment they stepped inside the garage.

Simmons half-expected a dog to run out to greet them. Or another messed-up machinery.

“Desafortunadamente.“ [Unfortunately.] a Spanish voice sounded. A second passed and a tan skinned man stepped into the room to greet them. His hands were digging into the pockets of his brown overalls, and the dark eyes remained emotionless as he looked them all over. He reminded Simmons of one of the workers in his previous squad – the one assigned to clean up the bloody mess afterwards and who always wore a tired expression.

The Spanish-speaking man eventually glared at Simmons. “Oh. Otro imbécil.“ [Oh. Another moron.]

Simmons sent him an unsure smile that wasn’t returned.

“Any idea of when Carolina is coming back?” Wash asked Church as they put down their heavy backpacks. It was a joy to straighten out their backs freely again.

“No idea,” Church said briefly. “Do you need her?” When Wash nodded, he sighed deeply, showing the white of his eyes. “If you want to discuss secret stuff, at least try to keep it secret.”

The pair went to the corner of the room, heads bowed as they talked. Tucker was pulled away by Caboose who was eager to show him his new can collection, and that left Simmons alone with Sarge who was the only one who hadn’t put down his weapon yet.

Cocking his shotgun, Sarge tilted his head at him. “You. You a dirty blue?”

“N-no, sir,” Simmons stuttered, remembering the signs outside. He held up his hands. “I’m-“ Seeing Tucker shake his head from the corner of his eye, signaling for him to stop, Simmons realized his manners were off – he hadn’t even introduced himself yet. A few weeks around smugglers and he was already less polite. Quickly holding out a hand, Simmons was ready to change that. “I’m Private Dick Simmons.”

In the distance, Tucker face-palmed.

“Private, eh?”  Sarge said, pulling his lips back in what he believed to be a smile. At least he lowered the shotgun. “Ready to follow orders?”

“I-“

“Holy fuck, you brought a Simmons here?!”

Spinning around, Simmons saw Church glaring at him with an open mouth. Simmons wanted to reply to his exclamation, but he wasn’t quite sure what to say.

Then Tucker stepped in front of him, spreading out his arms. “Relax, Church. He’s pretty fucking useless, I don’t think they’ve noticed.”

“Well, he did help us raid Area’s 1 weapon supply,” Wash said. “I think most people have noticed him.”

Simmons looked up at him at the praise, something warm fluttering inside his chest.

Robbing Area 1 was bad. He knew he’d made a mistake, that he was a bad person with bad morals and bad choices.

But hearing a professional smuggler praise him for it, it was hard not to feel just a little bit proud.

Despite all the badness.

“Sounds like a rebel to me,” Sarge huffed. His suspicious eyes narrowed again as he asked him, “You one of those pacifying thingies?”

“No, sir. I just needed to, uhm, pay them.”

“To find Grif?” Sarge said, flinching at his own words as if they made little sense. When Simmons nodded, he smacked his palms together. “Hah, I knew it! I told that useless meatsack would get an assassin on his broad ass one day.”

“I-I’m not-“

“Sure. That’s why Simmons needs to find him,” Tucker snorted. “The guy has more hidden knives than Wash. I heard he squeezed one between his-“

“I’m still not over the fact that you’re from the Simmons family,” Church said, taking one step closer to him. He was leaner than the smugglers, with less scars decorating his pale face, but there was something with his eyes that made Simmons alert. There was a look in them, as if he was always trying to figure something out, and it reminded him of the scientists back Zone, running the same blood tests over and over, waiting for different results.

Simmons twiddled his thumbs. “Do you, uhm, know my dad?”

“Personally – nope. Thank god. But everyone knows who Simmons is in the Zone.”

For once, Simmons wasn’t proud of his father’s status in the Military. He lowered his head. “I… Well, I’m Simmons. Not my dad but I’m… I’m still called Simmons. And I’m here. To find Grif. Because he was here. Right?”

“Left for a job, what, three weeks ago? Before we arrived. Sarge said he was complaining about a deadline, and we all know Grif will always be running late anyway. So what did the idiot get himself into?”

The smugglers shared a glance before Wash asked him, “Did he mention anything about the job?”

“Bragged about it being big. Good pay. What – did he lie to my face?”

“It’s a job for the Fireflies,” Tucker revealed, wincing.

The effect was immediate. Church doubled over, sputtering, as if someone had punched him in the stomach. “He worked for the Fireflies?!” he yelled, spit flying from his lips as his voice broke in the process. “In my house?!”

“Did we steal the flag again?” Caboose asked, sounding confused.

Wash held up a hand. “Technically-“

“That fuck!” Church screamed, hands turning into fists. “I’m going to kill him.”

Despite the threat, Tucker remained calm, leaning casually against the wall. “Didn’t you say there are different degrees of badness when it comes to the Fireflies?”

“Sure,” Church spat, eyes still burning. “Some groups are your arch nemesis. Some want to watch the would burn. Some are the biggest assholes you’ll ever meet in your life.”

“Obviously, you belonged in the last sort of group.”

Before Church could yell at Tucker, Wash stepped between them. “It doesn’t matter what stupid decision he made – we’re just here to find him alive.”

Clearing his throat, Sarge decided to speak up again. “Fatass came, ate our supplies, moved forward. West. Bear Valley. Don’t know what the boy needed to do there, but he’s never had the brain to make good decisions.”

“Well…” Simmons said, looking up sheepishly. “Neither do I.”

Sarge’s scarred face turned softer as he huffed: “We’ll see about that. Red or Blue?”

“What?” Sensing the urgency in the question, Simmons widened his eyes.

With a strained sigh, Wash walked over to interrupt them. “C’mon, Sarge. Do we really need to-“

Sarge just held out a hand to stop him. “Red. Or Blue?” he said again, looking Simmons straight in the eyes. “The decision of your life, boy.” 

* * *

“I can’t believe you’re a Red,” Tucker groaned the day afterwards when they were on the road again. It would take at least three days to reach Bear Valley according to Sarge, and Wash had quietly said he didn’t want to waste more time than necessary.

It was almost evening now, with the sun setting in the distance. The smugglers were looking pained at this point, tired with a sulking expression, but Simmons found himself walking faster than before. Maybe it was because they were getting closer to the last clue. That the journey would soon come to an end. Maybe he was still running high on Sarge’s praising words. Maybe it was just the environment – quiet fields all around them, the livestock having been killed years ago, and the road continuing straight ahead.

“I can’t believe we are still using Sarge’s pointless terms,” Wash sighed.

They’d briefly told Simmons the story yesterday: how it had begun as a codeword between the smugglers, knowing what hideout they were talking about. But then they had begun to live at the hideout, the colors had become an identity, and then Sarge had taken on step further by declaring war against the nearby trading post – while continuing to work with them.

None of it truly made sense. But that didn’t seem to matter to Sarge.

To him, Red was a badge of honor – and that feeling was exactly what Simmons needed right now. Some dignity and a sense of belonging had only improved his mood. He couldn’t help but smile as he marched forward.

“But Sarge said that I made the right choice,” he insisted. “That he saw it all along, and that he is proud of me.”

“And I’m sure Sarge is loving having someone to order him around that doesn’t flip him off,” Tucker muttered under his breath, kicking a rock in frustration.

“He has Donut,” Wash pointed out.

Simmons listened more closely to the conversation – he’d heard that name been thrown around a couple of times in the dinner conversation yesterday, but he hadn’t met the person yet. If he lived up to his name then – well, then Simmons wasn’t quite sure what to expect.

“Yeah, well, he’s disappeared on a mission too,” Tucker said, still sulking. “Seriously, are the Reds all dying or are they just fleeing from Sarge? I can’t tell.”

“Sarge said he doesn’t believe Grif is dead,” Simmons said, glaring at him. “That he’s tried to kill him off too many times so he’s immune to it now. Whatever that means.”

Then, Wash stopped walking.

It was so sudden that Simmons ended up a few feet in front of them, not having realized the group had come to a halt. He turned around with a frown to find Wash staring straight at him. “What are you going to do if Grif is dead?” the smuggler asked him sternly.

Pulling his head back at the sudden aggression, Simmons let his mouth fall open. “But- but Sarge said-“

“Sarge isn’t always right,” Wash pointed out. “Actually, it’s quite rare he is right… Anyway.” He shook his head to regain his focus. “I know you paid us, but we can’t perform miracles.”

As Simmons’ expression began to falter, Tucker stepped in front of him, as if to shield him. “Hey, Wash, shut up for a moment-“

“No, Tucker, he needs to hear this. There’s a real chance that Grif might be dead. I’m not saying he is, but we can’t run around looking for him forever.”

Tucker waved his hands. “Seriously, shush-“

“I’m not being mean, I’m being realistic-“

Turning his head, Tucker looked down the road. “Do you guys hear that?”

It was an angry noise, like growling, but not like the infected. Instead it sounded more like-

“Is that a…” Wash asked, widened his eyes. “…car?”

They barely had the time to see the blur of it, speeding in their direction

“ _Fucking shit_ -“ Tucker said, before Simmons threw himself at him, pushing them both of the road.

They heard a groan as Wash was hit, mixed with the screeching of tires as the car came to a halt.

“Oh my god, did we just kill somebody?”

Groggily, Simmons pushed himself up by the palms, trying to see who the panicked voice belonged to. As he stood up, he realized the vehicle was in fact a pickup truck, its orange color damaged by rust, and that two teenagers were sitting in the back of it, cautiously peeking over the roof to inspect the damage they’d caused.

“Infected?” one of them asked, squinting as he tried to get a better look at the unmoving figure on the road.

With a groan, Wash suddenly came back to life, raising a hand. “No!”

The smuggler standing next to Simmons dropped his jaw. “Grif?”

“Tucker?” the driver asked. Then: “Wash?”

“Woops,” the teenager said, sinking behind the cab.

“Fuck,” the other one said.

Simmons took one step closer to the vehicle, barely believing what he was seeing. “Grif?”

From behind the wheel, the tan-skinned man squinted at him. “Simmons?”

“Fucking crap,” the teen swore again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woooho, I managed to send the final edits to the publisher, so at least I won't have worry about my story for now. The books should be out in April and I'm so, so excited!
> 
> It took way too long to get this chapter done but here it is.
> 
> “Bear Valley” comes from the Bjørndal Cryogenics Research Facility where the name “Bjørndal” means “Bear Valley” in Danish and Norwegian.


	12. Day 116

Richard was poking at his food. His mother had told him he wasn’t a picky eater. And he wasn’t. He would eat all the vegetables – even broccoli and spinach – without flinching. Good kids didn’t leave food behind on the plate.

And Richard was a good kid. His mother had even said so.

But he couldn’t tell if there were any vegetables in this dinner, if there were any onions or peas or brussels sprouts. It was just a grey mush, and his spoon kept getting stuck in it.

He frowned, watching the porridge-like texture cling to it. He pulled his lips back in a grimace.

His father’s hand smacked against the back of his head. The plate clattered when his small chest bumped against the edge of the table.

“Half of the Zone won’t be eating tonight. The ration system isn't up yet,” his father told him as he marched to the other end of the room. His boots, large and sturdy, made a loud impact against the floor. Their new apartment was so far up, almost at the top of the building.

Father had said it’d be safer but his mother had kept crying, shaking her head. He didn’t think she liked the new apartment very much.

Richard didn’t, either. It was very big but empty and cold.

But he liked how high up they were. There were monsters on the streets. Richard hadn’t seen them yet, but he’d heard of them. That they were the reason why they had to move. He’d heard screams and growling, but then his mother had told him to close his eyes and he did what he was told.

A big, black car had picked them up from their old home, that night when the sirens had kept going, months ago. The men that had helped them pack were father’s colleagues – Richard recognized their uniforms. It’d been dark and raining when the car had finally left their driveway.

They’d moved a lot after that. Sometimes they only stayed a few nights, other times weeks. But this place was supposed to be their home. Father said the Zone was up and running now. That things would be safe and calm and alright.

The Wall wasn’t ready yet, but when Richard pressed his face against the window, he could see it rise around the buildings further down the city. There were more buildings in the distance, but father had said they wouldn’t be a part of the Zone.

He liked that word. The _Zone_. His mother had once said that when she’d been painting, that she was _in the Zone_ , and it’d been so beautiful, with all the colors and flowers. She hadn’t painted in a long time now, though she kept staying in her bedroom.

But this Zone, the one they were living in, it wasn’t safe. His father had said that, and so had his fellow soldiers. Richard had been sheltered from the sight of the monsters so far, but he’d seen the damage they’d left behind. Buildings in flames, and people screaming and crying, and wrecked cars, and there’d been this camp where he’d seen bags lying in rows.

Richard had known there’d been bodies in them, even when nobody had told him so, and he’d thrown up until his throat was sore and his father had told him to stop crying.

Because they all needed to be brave now. Like soldiers. Like father.

The Zone had to be defended, and they all had to step up. Otherwise, people would keep getting hurt.

Like the people in the bags or- or like mother.

Richard still wasn’t sure what had happened. He’d been with father while mother had been driven to the welcome center to look for Aunt Lena. Back at the camp, father had shown Richard a gun and asked him if he knew how to load it. Richard had shaken his head, no, but his eyes had hurt and his hands had begun to shake when father had pushed the weapon into them for him to hold it.

He’d scolded him when he’d begun to cry, and Richard had tried to stutter that he was just afraid – afraid that the weapon might hurt him or he’d mess up and pull the trigger by accident and hurt someone else.

Father had told him not to be stupid.

When they’d gone home, mother hadn’t returned yet.

She wouldn’t come home until three days later.

One of father’s colleagues told them that the center had collapsed – too many people on top of weak floors. That they were looking for survivors, but they feared the infection had spread from survivors that hadn't gone through the medical check yet.

Richard didn’t know much about the disease, except that it didn’t matter if you sneezed on people. You just shouldn’t bite them.

So he’d stayed near the windows, waiting, crying too much. He’d asked his father if he believed mother was dead.

His father had hesitated before answering him: “Better dead than infected.”

And that was when Richard learned what a bite meant.

But his mother hadn’t been bitten. When she was brought back to them, she was still alive. Father had said that mother was alright, but there were bruises on her face and dried blood on her forehead, and she’d been so quiet and pale and hadn’t wished him a good night.

“Just the shock,” his father had said, because Richard’s mother had no bitemarks. She’d been very lucky. She hadn’t died, and even though the people next to her had become sick, they hadn’t been able to reach her spot behind the railing of a staircase that had kept her trapped but safe.

Richard was happy that his mother had been so lucky, when it’d been such a horrific tragedy.

She hadn’t talked much after that, and Richard had been told to leave her alone, that she needed to rest. It’d been weeks, and the bruises had faded, but mother kept waking up with screams, yelling about monsters and blood and bitemarks.

He’d asked her once what was wrong, but she’d yelled to: “Cut it off! Cut it off! It must work, I know. Please look at him, please- Don’t let it stay!”

Richard just stayed in bed after that, even when he could hear his mother cry from the other side of the wall.

She was crying now, too.

Richard hated that sound. It made him feel like anything else than the noble, brave soldier that his father kept talking about. He didn’t feel ready to step up to defend his home. He just wanted to curl up beneath his blanket and wish for everything to return to normal again.

But without anyone telling him so, he knew that it would never happen. Richard had always been called a smart kid, and he knew he’d figured it all out.

But right now, he didn’t want to think about old memories about school and cartoon and science projects. Not when his mother kept crying in the bedroom. His father had disappeared to his office. They knew they couldn’t comfort her.

She’d been so sad after the incident, so strange. Her eyes were so distant now, like she didn’t even recognize him. Maybe that was why she didn’t hug him anymore.

Richard went to clean up his plate, but a particularly loud sob had his body jerk in shock, and he dropped it.

It shattered against the floor with an echoing noise. Biting his lip, Richard immediately crouched down to pick up the pieces. He knew that his father didn’t like messes.

He whimpered when the edge broke his skin. “Ow,” he said, looking at the blood dripping from the cut on his palm. The red color was almost hypnotizing, less scary than he’d expected it to be.

He still wanted to cry, but he wasn’t sure why – it didn’t hurt that much.

“No,” his mother whispered. Richard hadn’t heard her leave her bedroom, but suddenly she was standing next to the kitchen counter. “No. Nononono. _No, no_!” she yelled, voice breaking into a scream.

Richard closed his hand, feeling the blood run from between his fingers. “Mom?” he asked.

He didn’t realize she was holding the kitchen knife until it he was shoved to the floor and his mother was leaning over him, her red hair falling into his face.

She was still screaming, and he joined her when his hand hurt as if it’d been set on fire.

“Eva, what are you-?”

“No, no. Stop. It must be cut off, you don’t know, you didn’t _see_ \- He can’t change, he can’t, he can’t, you said- _You said we would be safe_! Don’t let him be infected, don’t let him, we have to- we have to-“

And there’d been a lot of footsteps and more yelling and sobbing-

There’d been a single gunshot.

The screaming had stopped then, but Richard hadn’t stopped crying.


	13. The Reunion

The truck could fit all of them. Of course it could. This truck was sent by the Gods, gifted to him because he finally deserved something good in his life. It might be rusty and the windshield was cracked but the motor was running and Grif couldn’t be happier.

Well, he probably could, but that would require more miracles than he could earn in a lifetime. Point still was that he’d found the vehicle just in time. He’d been trapped in that city for almost a week, Infected all over the place, and with no gun to defend himself he doubted anyone would have thought he’d make it.

But he’d stumbled across the note by chance, some poor dead fellar telling a guy named Poul that the truck was ready, just needed fuel and then they could begin their new life.

It looked like they’d died before they got that far, because the truck was still there, just waiting for Grif to turn the key. Of course it’d only coughed then, but Sarge had managed to teach Grif a thing or two, despite his growing insanity.

There were a lot of broken cars in every city, and while they couldn’t move – rotted tires and dead batteries - they did have gas. The garage had a hose and a cannister, and a trip around the city had provided him with the fuel that he needed.

He’d driven cars before, the big military jeeps back at the Quarantine Zone. It’d seemed like it was the only thing he was good at. He’d at least managed to keep that job for a year.

So he’d felt confident when he sat down behind the wheel. Maybe mainly because he could hear the Infected scrambling towards him, and he couldn’t wait to get the fuck out of here. It felt right – it felt good.

Like for once in the last couple of weeks, things were going his way.

Seven minutes later and he’d almost run down two teenagers.

Two days later and he _did_ run over Wash.

At least cops no longer existed to take away his non-existing driver’s license.

Oh, and Wash survived. So that was great.

Simmons was sitting in the passenger seat, while the others had gathered in the truck bed.

The pale man stared right ahead as he asked, “How did you get a car?” He didn’t sound as impressed as he should be.

“It’s a rental,” he answered with a snort and tightened his grip on the steering wheel. This beauty belonged to him now.

“Fuck you,” Simmons just replied. He had the same frown on his forehead like when they’d discussed whether to crawl under the Wall or return to the soldiers.

Good thing to know that he hadn’t changed that much.

Behind them he could hear Matthews call out nervously, “Is the guy dead?”

“Not yet,” Wash croaked. Grif was pretty sure he’d been bleeding when Tucker had hauled him into the truck, but they all knew it’d take a fucking missile to take out the ex-Firefly. Wash was basically a cockroach like that.

Grif held back a bitter laugh. He was probably a cockroach himself by now.

“I just want to point,” Bitter said, “for no apparent reason, that I didn’t drive the car.”

As if Grif would ever let the teen touch the steering wheel. After shifting in his seat, Simmons turned towards him, eyes widened and alarmed. “Do you even know how to drive?”

“Obviously.”

Simmons narrowed his eyes at him, judging the situation, and then quickly tightened his seatbelt.

It was too hard not to snort at the sight.

But the amusement quickly faded, replaced with an awful throbbing inside his head. The mental voice screaming _‘wrong, wrong, wrong’_ , fighting the lips’ urge to smile. It was strange, feelings fighting each other like that. Grif rarely dared to admit to feel one emotion, and now he could feel the presence of two. He should curse Simmons for doing this to him.

“So, is anyone gonna tell me why the nerd is outside the Wall?” he grumbled, looking over his shoulder to get a glimpse of Tucker.

Simmons whined nervously when he removed his eyes from the road.

“Are you gonna tell us why you disappeared for like a month?” Tucker spat back at him. “Also, what’s with the kids?”

He could hear Bitters hiss like a pissed off snake.

“They call themselves- I think the term was _teenager_ ,” he said smoothly. To be fair, their young age had surprised him too, when he’d met them. They’d reminded him of Kai – and that wasn’t necessarily a good thing.

“Fuck you,” Bitters spat.

“Hi, I’m Matthews.” In the rear-mirror, he could see the teenager stretch out his hand for Tucker to shake. “That’s Bitters. We’re sorry about your friend.”

“I’m fine,” Wash groaned in a manner that didn’t really speak well for his health. Grif almost winced on his behalf. “My kneecap has had it worse.”

“Well, I’m more concerned about the oozing headwound but whatever,” Tucker said before changing subject. “So, did Grif adopt you guys or…?”

“We hired him!”

Matthews sounded too happy about the fact. From the corner of his eye, Grif watched Simmons glare at him – in shock or curiosity or whatever.

“You what?” Tucker exclaimed. “I thought you were working with the Fireflies. Which was also a A+ Awful idea, by the way.”

He almost stepped on the brake, holding back a curse. They’d done their research, then. Well, they’d had to in order to find him. Still, their reactions were one of the reasons why he hadn’t told anyone to begin with. “Who the fuck told you-“

“Vic.”

“Of course,” he sighed. He wasn’t even surprised. “Greedy asshole.”

“Says you,” Tucker said without missing a beat. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

If he had a time-machine, Grif would probably have travelled back in time to ask his old self that question. Well, he knew _why_. A good paying job meant more time at home, more time where he didn’t have to fear for his life every second, more time spent with Kai.

It’d seemed like a great deal back then.

Fucking hindsight.

“A job’s a job,” he replied stiffly. “I’m more curious why you dragged Simmons out here.”

“ _’Dragged’_?” Tucker said. “Dude, he hired us.”

Now it was Grif’s time to widen his eyes. “What the-“

“So you were fine?” When Simmons finally opened his mouth, it sounded dull. Numb. And Grif knew him well enough to realize that meant he was pissed off.

Either that or dying or something. “Huh?” he said, turning his head to stare at him. It was easy enough as long as the road remained straight. It wasn’t like he had any other cars to avoid.

“All this time, you weren’t dying or- or lost or injured- You were fine. Taking another job.”

One part of Grif’s brain thought that Simmons would be happy by the fact that he was alright. But, well, Grif had never thought himself smart. “Why the fuck do you care?” he said.

“Because I-“ His jaw fell, face going a shade paler. For a moment Grif had to check if a Bloater was standing in the middle of the road – Simmons looked absolutely terrified. Finally, he whispered, “Holy fuck I robbed the weapon storage.”

Behind them, Tucker coughed awkwardly. “Are you first realizing this now or…?”

“He did what?!” Grif yelled his thoughts out loud, because this was certainly a question that needed an answer. Simmons didn’t look like he’d changed that much the last half a year. Still pale and skinny and far too gullible for his own good.

So just how had he ended up here?

“Are we… are we getting introduced or something?” Bitters asked from the trunk bed, never caring about the current subject.

Meanwhile, Simmons still looked as if he was about to throw up. “I fucked up. Stop the car, I need to get home-“

“Simmons, what are you-“

“I said: stop the car!”

The way his voice broke made Grif follow the order. They were still in the middle of nowhere – thank god, that meant less Infected – with fields on either side of the rode. Simmons literally stumbled out of the jeep, swaying as he began to make his way down the road.

Grif watched him go, a frown shaping on his forehead.

 “…Are they married?” Bitters asked.

Grif realized he hated the teenager already.

“Oh my god, he’s angry because we are taking his husband away from him.” Matthews gasped loudly before grabbing his friend’s arm. “Bitters, I’m having second thoughts.”

“Who even are you people?” Tucker asked them both, dumbfounded. He spent five seconds just glaring at them, before he realized that Grif had crossed his arms, turning off the engine. “What?”

“You brought him here?!”

There was no way Simmons could make it here on his own. Besides, Tucker had already revealed too much. But why would the nerd chance his mind about the world now?

Too many times had Grif wondered just how things would have turned out if Simons had followed him back in the wasteland.

And now, out of nowhere, Simmons was back in his life again.

“He hired us to bring us here!”

“Why?!”

“I don’t know. Maybe he likes you. Maybe he likes your sister. She’s the one who convinced him to look for you.”

Grif wished he could feel surprised by anything at this point. But he just couldn’t muster the energy for it. He was too tired. Too sore. “I’m gonna strangle her,” he muttered instead, wondering just what Kai had done.

Crawling closer to the cab, Tucker’s head popped up in his rear-view mirror again. “Seriously, though. You were gone for a long time. We thought a Bloater had finally gotten you or something.”

Grif exhaled deeply. They weren’t that wrong. He understood their worry even if it came as a surprise. For a while, he’d been sure he was as good as dead.

“I just fucked up.” He sighed, running a hand across his face. The sooner they got to the garage, the sooner he could sleep. He had to focus on that above anything else. “I got it handled,” he then quickly added, not ready for that conversation just yet

Looking down the road, he saw the shape of Simmons growing smaller and smaller with the distance. Tilting his head, Grif asked, “Is he planning to walk back to the Zone or…”

“He’s weird,” Tucker said with a shrug. “Sarge likes him, though.”

Grif choked on air. “He what?!”

* * *

When he finally managed to catch up with the redhead, his lungs were burning. He held up a hand signaling for Simmons to wait for him until he could breathe again. His vision was swimming, the wound on his arm stinging.

He was so fucking tired.

But Simmons had only stopped to shake some mud off his boots, and Grif had a growing feeling that he wouldn’t wait for him for that much longer. So he found enough air to begin the conversation that needed to take place.

“So,” he said, “apparently Sarge says you’re a Red.”

“I’m not talking to you,” Simmons huffed, crossing his arms. His frown screamed ‘I’m pissed’, but his eyes were yelling ‘I’m panicking’. A strange sight. At least his freckles were still there.

Forcing himself to bring back his smirk, Grif said, “That’s pretty weird since you apparently came all this way to find me.”

Simmons looked the same. Mostly. The military outfit was gone, replaced with a simple maroon shirt, thick and weathered. It was stained and torn at numerous places, and he had a feeling that Simmons wasn’t too happy about the fact.

The gun was strapped to Simmons’ belt, and he wondered if he’d become better at shooting. Right here, right now, with dirt on his face and a grim expression, Simmons almost looked like he belonged out here.

But he didn’t. Grif knew that.

“Well, you didn’t need me anyway!” Simmons hissed to break the silence. “So it was all useless.” He looked at the ground, squaring his shoulders. “I hate you.”

Grif wished that was the first time he was told that. But knowing Sarge, he’d become practically numb to the hate by now. Still, Simmons was sending mixed signals. Not necessarily a bad thing, but confusing nonetheless. “What?”

“This is your fault!” Stomping a boot against the ground, red in the face, Simmons looked like Kai when she’d been angry toddler. Nothing like the fancy dignified Area 1 type he liked to pretend he was.

“What is happening right now?”

Simmons’ blue eyes flashed with anger. “I came all this way to find you and you didn’t even need to be found! You were _fine_ , with a car- and- and some teenagers, for some reason!” His furious expression broke just for a second, as if trying to take in the absurdity of the situation. Then he shook his head, pulling his thoughts together. “And it’s too late now! I can’t go back! Can I? No- no I can’t because I’m wanted for _breaking into the storage_ , and my father- that’s- that’s worth an execution I’m sure, so I’m stuck out here, with _you_ , who didn’t even need my help to begin with?!”

When Simmons get angry, his nostrils flared. It reminded Grif of a hamster Kai had been caring for before everything went to shit. It looked more cute than threatening.

But at this point he could hold a gun to Grif’s forehead and he wouldn’t flinch. Let him sleep first, then he could freak out.

When Simmons’ lower lip began to quiver, Grif figured it was time to end the silence. “Are you done?” he asked, and when Simmons quietly nodded, he took a step forward. “Good. Here’s a Snicker.”

Simmons basically slapped the treat out of his hand. It was dry as cardboard anyway, probably moldy, but Grif was willing to give it a chance. He was big-hearted like that.

“Oh fuck you,” Simmons muttered under his breath, kicking the dirt.

Grif sang as he leaned down to pick up the chocolate bar, “You aren’t you when you-“

“It’s not funny, Grif.”

“Seriously, though,” he said as he straightened out his back. Simmons was returning his glare, eyes piercing, sharp with a weariness that hadn’t been there before. Grif frowned. “You’ve changed. Never thought I’d see you outside the Wall again.”

“You were the one who asked me to,” Simmons grumbled, wringing his glove-covered hands.

“Uhm, no I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did,” he hissed. “You made a letter!”

That would explain something. Not _everything_. Just why Kai had bothered to contact Simmons in the first place. Grif had wished it’d never be necessary to reach out – to blackmail – like that, but well, he couldn’t just leave Kai alone. If shit happened, he needed to make sure she stayed alright.

Simmons owed him a favor. He might as well use it. So he’d prepared for that whole ‘just in case I die a horrible death’ scenario, showing Kai where to find it should he be gone for too long.

Had it really been that long? The days had all mixed together after his fuck-up. “My letter that told you to give my sister a job?” he said dryly. “That letter?”

Simmons nodded. “Yes.”

“Despite it not telling you to leave the Zone, it actually told you to leave the Zone?”

“Yes. I mean no. I mean, your sister thought it told me to find you, and I couldn’t-“ He trailed off, suddenly biting his own lip. “She was very persistent,” he eventually huffed, trying to sound dignified.

It was nice to see the red color on his cheeks. It reminded him a bit of the idiot soldier he’d been paired with so long time ago. Less pissed, more flustered. Like the Simmons he remembered.

“For fuck’s sake, Simmons, I wouldn’t have asked that of you,” he said, running a hand through his dirty hair. He regretted the motion the moment his wound began to ache again. “I guess we both figured you owed me one but-“

“It’s too late to go back now,” Simmons sniffed. It sounded as if he was crying, but Grif wasn’t sure – Simmons’ face was tilted towards the ground.

The sadness made him uncomfortable, enough to make him shift the weight on his feet and look to the distance. The sun was setting. They should find shelter before the darkness came. “Yeah, well, sounds like Sarge took you in. So you have that.”

It shouldn’t be a surprise that Sarge liked Simmons. Loyal military men and all that. And it was a good thing that Simmons had some safe spot out here. But still-

“He said you’re a- a Red, too,” Simmons then said, softly.

He looked up at him, eyes more curious this time, enough to make Grif look away again.

“Yeah, well, I’m always out on shitty jobs.”

He could feel Simmons’ glance on him, and he supposed he looked like shit. Too much running, too little sleep. And even though it’d been torn in some places, the shirt should cover the bandage. He crossed his arms just to be sure, fingers squeezing around the spot to check if it felt wet.

“Are you okay?” Simmons finally asked him. The anger was gone from his voice now, at least.

“I’m just-“ The word died at the tip of his lips. Too much to say, too big a headache. And it wasn’t like Simmons could help him anyway. So in the end, he just ended up sighing. “Look I haven’t slept for like two days so I’m basically in Hell.”

He closed his eyes and it took too long for him to open them again. But when he did, Simmons was still there, out here, in the middle of the wildlife, outside the Zone. He could almost mistake it for a hallucination, but he shouldn’t be that bad off. “Can we talk more when we’re back at Sarge’s?” Grif asked, gesturing towards the truck in the distance. “Unless you really are up to walking back to the people who are going to shoot you on sight. Again.”

Luckily, this time Simmons followed him instead of walking off on his own.

* * *

“Have I ever said ‘Fuck Sarge’? Because I’m going to say it now. Fuck Sarge,” he growled after a new small explosion sent a wave of dirt against the side of the car, leaving the sideview mirror crooked.

He knew everyone was right to be paranoid – the city was still filled with Infected, the leftover of the citizens that had once lived here – but Sarge’s level of paranoia was getting of his nerves. He’d triggered some of his traps by mistake in the past and had suffered numerous scars and burns for it. Sarge, of course, had only laughed.

But he refused to get scratches on his car.

“Dude, just park it somewhere,” Tucker said.

“Well, I can’t just leave it out here or some asshole is going to wreck it. And I can’t get it inside the city because, fuck me, I’ll probably hit a mine he’s buried somewhere and then I’m going to die and lose my car, and I refuse to lose this car.”

“Maybe try not to die, also,” his fellow smuggler pointed out. “Simmons has already had one breakdown.”

Luckily, the amount of people trying to flee from certain death back then had left a lot of garages empty. It made no sense to try to get closer to the headquarters since Sarge had either barricaded the main streets or boobytrapped them.

This would work for now, but it hurt as he forced himself to remove his hands from the steering wheel.

Tucker snorted as he helped the dizzy Wash get down from the truck. “Do you, like, need a moment to say goodbye or-?”

“Fuck you,” Grif hissed and gave the roof of the vehicle a gentle pat. “She’s mine. And I’m not leaving you, baby, I’ll be back in a moment.”

Tucker grimaced as if he was about to throw up, but Matthews just looked at him with those big, naïve eyes. Grif wasn’t even sure how he’d survived this far. “I think it’s sweet,” the young man said, earning an elbow in the side from Bitters.

“You’re just saying that ‘cause you do the same thing with Goldy.”

Dropping his jaw, Tucker turned around to stare at them in disbelief. “Oh my god, _you_ have a girl at home?”

Bitters visibly winced. “It’s just a horse-“

“-a very nice horse,” Matthews felt the need to add.

“Just where are you from?” Tucker asked with a frown. Grif couldn’t blame him – he’d been just as confused when he’d heard the teenagers’ story. But if things went according to plan, he was going to see their home himself.

But that was too much to think about now. His head was still throbbing and his arm had become even more sore.  

“Can we eat first?” Bitters said, proving again why Grif respected him, “‘cause it’s a long story.”

* * *

“Grif. I see you haven’t died yet,” was the first thing Sarge said when he saw him, just like always.

So Grif kept his face straight, replying dryly, “Sarge. I see you haven’t died from a rage-induced heart-attack yet.”

Sarge huffed and that was the end of their standard greeting. Good to know that things hadn’t changed that much.

Then from the backroom, Caboose appeared with a smile on his face. Tucker had warned them that the Blues lived here now. Just one shitshow after another. “Hey, Agent Washingtub. Did you walk into a door again?” he asked, nodding towards the growing bruise on his face.

“He got hit by a car,” Tucker said helping his friend walk towards the nearest chair to collapse into.

“Past seems to repeat itself, huh, Wash?” Church said, right at Caboose’s heels. The normally annoyed expression had turned smug for once.

“Don’t remind me,” Wash groaned.

Grif sensed Firefly-backstories and quickly decided he didn’t need to know more about that. He was already too tangled up with the Fireflies, thank you very much. So he grabbed the can of heated beans from the fireplace, sitting down on the worn mattress. He could feel his legs creak at the sudden relief. “Where’s Donut?” he asked with his mouth full.

From the corner of his eye he watched Simmons trying to make himself comfortable. After a nod from Sarge he finally sat down in one of the chairs, crossing his legs in the process. His nose wrinkled when he touched the stained fabric of the armrests. It was amusing to watch.

“Dead,” Sarge huffed. “Probably.”

“Nice,” Grif said and continued to eat. He wasn’t worried, not after having seen Donut survive numerous attacks from Infected, not to mention the times he got caught in one of Sarge’s explosions, oh, and Wash had shot him once, and last year, apparently he’d fallen in the river and returned two weeks later-

The point was: Donut could not be killed. Unfortunately.

“We celebrated your death two days ago,” Sarge then spat in his direction. “Why are you cruel enough to return and destroy the mood!”

“I baked cake,” Caboose pointed out, giving him a thumbs-up.

“And burned down our base,” Church said, deadpanned. “And just to clear things up, we weren’t a part of the celebration – Caboose is just in idiot. I, for one, am happy that you are alive so that I can yell _what the fuck are you doing with the Fireflies_?!”

See, Church’s nostrils didn’t do that cute hamster-thing like Simmons'. He just looked as if his eyes were about to pop out of his head and that vein in his forehead might explode at any moment. Clearly overreacting. Like the Blue he was.

Grif just leaned back against the wall, getting comfortable. “Dramatic Blues being dramatic,” he said, smacking his lips. “Just, breathe, chill.” And then, under his breath, he couldn’t help but add in bitterness. “Like you haven’t worked with them…”

“I _was_ a Firefly,” the pale man barked at him. “There’s a difference.”

“Uhm, no one told us we were getting mixed into Firefly business,” Bitters said, holding up his hands. His eyes were narrowed, alert. He was clever, after all. “’cause we don’t want that.”

“Relax,” Grif told him. “Church got kicked out.”

That just earned him another piercing glare from the man. “That’s not what happened and you know it.”

“Are we really going to share tragic backstories around the campfire?” Grif asked them dryly. “Because that’s a big cliché by now.”

Caboose almost jumped at the spot. “I’ll get the marshmallows,” he said, and well, Grif wouldn’t be displeased with that result. Except, he was pretty sure Caboose’s marshmallows were painted rocks or something.

“We just want to know your story,” Tucker said. He’d fetched a medkit, handing Wash some swipes to clean the scrapes on his knee. “And we kinda deserves it at this point.”

“Since when did you become detectives?” Grif said. He knew he’d pretty much lost the battle about whether or not to tell what had happened, but it didn’t make the situation any less annoying. Simmons’ blue eyes were watching him carefully, and every face in the crowded room was turned towards him.

“We’re just dropping off the smuggled goods. Simmons,” Tucker pointed out, gesturing towards said goods.

“The Firefly deal,” Church barked. The vein on his forehead was still looking dangerously close to breaching. “What was it?”

With a sigh, Grif rolled his eyes and used his palm to push himself upwards. He couldn’t nap now, but soon. Just needed to deal with this headache first. “Do you really think they’d let me in on anything?” he said. “It was just a package. A small one. And a folder with papers I was told not to look at. I was supposed to drop them off this spot west of Bear Valley-“

“ _Supposed_?” Church cut him off. “As in, you fucked up.”

“Is that a surprise?” Sarge said, as helpful as always.

Grif gritted his teeth, not because of the teasing – he’d become used to that at this point – but because they were too right. He’d fucked up. It was his stupidity that had dragged him into this hell of a situation and he was still trying to find a way out of it.

“I lost them, okay,” he finally said, tightening his grip on the can. “Grif messed up, who would have guessed?! I lost the package.”

He wondered how many of them understood what this meant. Caboose certainly didn’t, but the guy barely understood a yes/no sentence. Simmons looked a bit clueless too, still wearing his worried frown but eyes darting around, as if searching for an answer.

But his fellow smugglers were aware of what this meant.

“That is bad,” Wash said. He looked coherent now, a colorful bruise on his forehead and bleeding shins.

“How the hell did you manage that?!” Church yelled so that Simmons flinched next to him.

“Fucking Runners got me by surprise,” he said without missing a beat. It was the truth, after all. “It was a pain in the ass to get away in the first place, I didn’t really look over my shoulder. The backpack was gone when I returned. I don’t know if it fell somewhere or if some asshole stole it as supplies. Look, I had everything in that backpack. I’m not happy either.”

He still remembered the absolute dread that came from being woken up by a snarl. He’d barely managed to survive that heart-attack, and then the Infected had been all over him and he’d just _run_.

He’d fired his gun but it’d been empty and of course he hadn’t brought extra ammo. He’d been sure that he had a pack of bullet somewhere, but his mind had betrayed him and his legs had to save his life instead.

It was first when he’d finally managed to crawl to the second floor with a door sturdy enough to be locked that he’d collapsed and realized in horror that he had nothing on him. No backpack.

And later, when the panic had dissolved and the wounds had been bandaged, he’d carefully returned to the camp only the find the backpack gone.

Church groaned, pressing a palm against his head. “This is almost worse than the time Caboose tried to make friends with the raider caravan.”

“They were nice and they gave me nicknames. Giant fool. I love when people praise my height.”

“My favorite peanut butter bar was in that backpack, alright,” Grif said. “I’m already suffering.”

Tucker sent him a sympathetic glance. “The Fireflies are going to kill you.”

Why did the truth have to sound so horrible spoken out loud?

But it couldn’t be said more clearly. Grif lost a package and it wasn’t just the average amount of pills or guns. No. It was of course the super secret important package from the _Fireflies_. Some high intel stuff, or whatever. He hadn’t dared to take a look at it, and now it was gone.

That meant he owed them a lot, and he wasn’t even sure how this could be repaid.

And once the Fireflies found out he fucked up his part of the deal, he doubted they wanted to listen to his excuses.

He couldn’t return to the Zone. He couldn’t see Kai. They’d kill him on sight or torture him first, and he couldn’t give them anything back. He could plead for his life, sure, but these guys were used to blowing up citizens. He doubted they’d have mercy.

He needed a miracle in order to earn back their favor. He could probably win them over with enough guns and other supplies, but the only way to get those was through another job-

So when the teenagers had offered him a deal, he’d taken it without hesitation.

“Can’t you tell them that it was a mistake?” Simmons asked.

Of course he might not know that Church had cut all ties with the organization. Carolina was somewhat active, he thought, not an actual member but keeping an eye on their groups or something. He didn’t know. Carolina was terrifying and he’d never dared to ask how her super secret missions were going. So he didn’t have high hopes that she could help him sort this out.

But still, Simmons should be smarter than think the group would have mercy on him. “C’mon, Simmons, you hate the Fireflies. Do you really think that would work?”

“So you are in trouble-“

“And you can’t save my ass,” Grif cut him off before Simmons could start making any stupid plans. “I’m already doing that. Presenting, uhm, Litter and Michael.”

He threw out an arm, gesturing towards the teens, making sure to mispronounce their names just to see them narrow their eyes in anger.

“You fuck,” Bitters said.

His friend was more forgiving. “It’s Matthews, sir. And Bitters.”

“And they just gave me a job,” he explained to the group, watching how his friends blinked in surprise. “A good-paying one. So I can pay back the Fireflies.”

“Do you really think that’s going to work?” Church asked him, as negative as always. “Have you met Carolina? Imagine her forgiving you for losing important documents. Yeah, take that image and multiply it. That’s what you are dealing with right now.”

It wasn’t a nice image. But Grif had been facing death and all sorts of dooms the last weeks, so this was a shining ray of hope in the midst of absolute shit. “It’s better than nothing.”

“We, uh, can hire you as well,” Matthews said. The words had barely left his lips before Bitters elbowed his stomach. But it didn’t work, and Matthews continued with a wince. “Kimball said we need more people-“

“To what?” Tucker asked.

Sarge was watching the newcomers with interest but only snorted, “If you want to hire Grif, you have to be desperate.”

“We are,” Bitters said, deadpanned.

Matthews was such a contrast to his friend, jumping with eagerness and smiling brightly. “We represent the clan of Chorus!”

“Clan?” Church said, voice already filled with distrust.

“More like, a group of survivors outside the QZs,” Bitters explained slowly. “Because it’s possible. Somewhat at least.”

Matthews nodded at his words. “We’re a peaceful group. So no- no raiding or anything now! We have horses and- and we are trying to grow crops, and we had electricity for a while and-“

All eyebrows in the room were lifted in surprise. Even Lopez whom Grif had suspected to lack any human emotions.

He understood why they were impressed. He’d been so himself when he’d heard the tale. Sounded too good to be true. Like a slice of heaven in this wasteland. He hadn’t thought it possible, maybe because he’d experienced just how shitty humans could be when it came to survival.

But apparently this place was real. He only had the teenagers’ words for it, of course, but Grif could recognize desperation hen he saw it, and from what he could tell, they weren’t lying. They needed him, and he needed a job.

“But a nasty group of raiders invaded the city we used as base,” Bitters continued. “We want it back but- well, we get our ass kicked. Lot of people dead. And injured. So we are hiring new soldiers.”

“And you pay a lot?” Tucker asked. He couldn’t hide the interested tone in his voice. Grif couldn’t blame him – he needed good jobs too, in order to provide for Junior in the future.

“We have guns and supplies,” Bitters said, exactly what he’d told Grif too. But they are inside Armonia right now, which is why we need it back.”

“And if Kimball likes you, you could probably get to stay!” Matthews said, too happy about his own idea. “That would be awesome!”

Lopez tilted his head. “Libertad?” [Freedom?]

“And leave the garage?” Sarge said, sounding as if he’d just been called out for being an idiot. “Never!”

Lopez sighed. “Decepción.” [Disappointment.]

At the sound of rejection, Matthews’ face fell. “But- we have horses-“

“We have Freckles,” Caboose cut in, smiling proudly.

“Yeah, we got ties to the Zone, so that’s not happening,” Tucker said, raising his shoulders. “But just how big was that pay again?”

“You’re not a soldier, Grif,” Simmons pointed out, giving him this strange look across the room. Maybe he hadn’t been told how big a part of the smuggler life that consisted of defending yourself from raiders and Infected.

“I did grow up in a military school. I gotta use all that training for something.” He tried not to flinch at the memories of the squats in the courtyard every morning. “’sides, I need the payment.”

“I’m staying,” Sarge declared loudly. Grif hadn’t expected anything else from him. “Can’t trust anyone with this beauty of a base. Real explosions require knowledge you can’t even imagine!”

“That’s called insanity,” Grif said dryly.

Caboose nodded. “Ah, and someone has to wait for the cookie man.”

“And other more important people,” Church added quietly and Grif knew he was talking about his sister.

Tucker was quiet but the frown was still evident, revealing that he was still considering the deal. Wash was just watching them all from a distance, recovering, but Grif knew he would go wherever Tucker went.

Lopez, apparently, was bound to the base, working for Sarge, so that meant only Simmons was left to decide. Grif turned his head, gaining eye-contact with him. “You staying with Sarge?”

“I- I suppose so,” Simmons said, shifting in his seat. He kept pulling at the rim of his gloves. “I looked at some of Sarge’s blueprints, and they remind me of the lab back home and-“

He cut himself off, expression pained. He must have remembered that the Zone wasn’t exactly his home any longer.

Half a year ago, Grif would have begged Simmons to come with him. Now he just wasn’t sure why Simmons had been stupid enough to leave.

Was Kai that convincing? He knew that she _was_ , but he was her brother – he was always weak for her puppy eyes.

But it made sense for Simmons to stay here. Despite the daily explosions, Sarge’s city was safe. He could pick up some skills, make himself comfortable. Sarge would keep an eye on him, at least.

Besides, Grif hadn’t really expected anyone to come with him on this mission. It was for the best. He yawned, putting down his empty can of beans. “Well, before we head out, I’m going to take a daylong nap. Then I’ll go propose to my car. Then we head out.”

Sarge showed the newcomers an empty mattress in the upper room, and Grif heard the others chat quietly – he heard his own name being mentioned a few times, as well as Simmons’ – while he slid out of the room.

His own bed was left to the kitchen, mattresses spread all over the floor and supplies safely stored in the dresser. He almost sighed in relief when he picked up the ammo packages. This would be the last time he forgot extra ammo.

He had a spare backpack as well that he quickly filled with the essentials – food, compass, ammo, a single Molotov cocktail, just in case. He held onto the medkit for a few moments, needing to redress his sores before sleeping.

Biting his lip, he made sure no one heard his groans as he cleaned the wound near his elbow.

He just managed to pull the sleeve of his shirt back down as Simmons stepped into the room. He stopped in the doorway, looking down at the worn mattresses.

“How long will you be gone?” he asked him.

“I don’t know,” Grif said as he put the bandages and antiseptics in the bag. “’till the job’s done, I guess. That’s how it usually works.”

“And you can’t stay?”

He sighed, letting himself collapse to rest his head against the pillow. “No one wants to have debt to the Fireflies, Simmons.”

“But I just went all this way to find you,” Simmons argued, sounding a bit too proud of himself. Sure, he made it all the way out here, but he did have an escort of expert smugglers.

The mattress creaked when Simmons settled down next to him. For a moment Grif widened his eyes in surprise – the he realized the teens were occupying the guest room. Simmons must have been told to sleep in his room for the night. Not that Grif was going to complain about the fact.

“Yeah, well, it’s not like you can come with me.”

“Why the fuck not?” Simmons asked, sounded offended more than anything. The guy probably thought himself a wildlife expert now. The naivety could be sweet, if it wasn’t one of the fastest ways to get him killed.

“Come on, Simmons,” he said. “You aren’t a soldier.”

“Neither are you,” Simmons said pointed out.

Grif needed a moment to recover from the ice-cold tone in Simmons’ voice. “Yeah, but I’m desperate.”  He then rolled over to lie with his back against Simmons, wincing when he put pressure on his sore shoulder. “Now, shut the fuck up. I’m gonna sleep.”

It was almost impossible to fight against the urge to let his eyelids drop, but out of sheer stubbornness he waited until he heard Simmons’ breathing slow down. Once sure that the nerd was asleep, he pulled up his sleeve again, watching the red bite mark near his elbow, glistening in the soft light of the lantern.

* * *

Grif woke up to the sensation of his skull splitting apart, the voice cutting through it like a knife.

With a groan he buried his face in his pillow, willing to ignore the world forever if it could spare him the pain. “No. Nuh-uh. I’m sleeping, and don’t you think of waking me up.”

“But-“ the quivering voice said.

He recognized it and sighed. “Unless this place is on fire, Matthews, you are letting me sleep.”

“But it _is_!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter was getting too long, so I had to cut off some of the ending to put it in the next chapter instead. So you have that to look forward to.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> As always: English isn't my native language so I apologize for any mistakes, and you can find me on tumblr as riathedreamer.


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